Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
Helen stared at the paper in Arthur’s hand, her mouth open but no words coming out.
Arthur looked down at the table, his shoulders sinking. He set the photocopy down on the mahogany wood, right next to the stack of retail receipts.
“She is right, Helen,” Arthur said, his voice barely a whisper. “We cannot touch this.”
He turned his head toward me, his eyes tired and remote.
“Go to your new place, Lauren,” he said. “Nobody is going to sue you.”
I stood up from the table, leaving the papers where they lay on the polished wood. I walked out of the dining room into the hallway, my coat swishing against my legs.
As I reached the front door, I heard Vanessa start to speak in her high, theatrical tones, her voice cracking as she began to complain about the cold kitchen. I did not stop to listen. I closed the heavy wooden door behind me and walked out into the cool, quiet evening.
By Sunday morning, the small second-floor studio on Elm Street was smelling of fresh yellow paint and cardboard boxes.