Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
He turned the truck onto Grand Avenue, the big tires splashing through the puddles in the asphalt. The heater was blowing lukewarm air that tasted of dust. I looked down at my lap, where the key to my new studio on Elm Street sat in my palm.
“They do not know I am leaving today,” I said.
“Vanessa thinks you are coming to her dinner on Sunday,” Keith said.
“She thinks she is hosting it in my living room,” I said. “She bought two hundred dollars of groceries on our mother’s account.”
“She will have a hard time cooking them without the range,” Keith said.
He did not smile when he said it, which made me trust him more. He kept his hands at ten and two on the black plastic wheel, driving with the same steady, boring precision he used to review our quarterly budget spreadsheets.
“The stove was four hundred and sixty dollars,” I said. “I bought it when the old coil burner caught fire in September.”
“Did you keep the receipt?” Keith asked.
