Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
I stood very still by the stove, my hand resting on the handle of the kettle.
No one had my new address except the agency and my father, who had promised to keep the location to himself.
I walked over to the small wall monitor and pressed the talk button.
“Lauren,” my father’s voice came through the speaker, low and apologetic, muffled by the street noise behind him. “I have your mail from the old kitchen counter.”
I released the button and pressed the latch release, listening to the click of the lock downstairs.
When my father reached the landing, he was carrying a small stack of white envelopes and a yellow grocery bag.
He stood in the doorway of my studio, his eyes moving slowly over the high ceiling and the unpacked boxes stacked against the wall.
He rubbed his thumb over his leather key fob, the sound of the friction tiny in the quiet room.
“It is smaller than I thought it would be,” he said, stepping inside without taking off his gray wool coat.
