Family Landlords Raise the Rent to Force One Sister Out
He did not look surprised, nor did he look angry.
He simply nodded once, his thumb resuming its slow circle over the leather key fob in his pocket.
“I had to ask,” he said.
“You did,” I said.
“She is still your sister, Lauren.”
“I know who she is,” I said.
He turned and walked down the stairs, his footsteps growing fainter as he reached the first landing, until the street door downstairs clicked shut.
I stood in the small hallway of my studio for three minutes, listening to the refrigerator hum in the kitchen.
Then I walked over to my unpacking boxes and carried the last small carton to my desk by the window.
I pulled out the desk drawer, the wood sliding smoothly against the runners because I had waxed them myself the night before.
Inside the drawer lay the new pink lease agreement for the Elm Street studio, signed by me and my new landlord, with a monthly rent of eight hundred and fifty dollars.
I picked up the key to the drawer, a small brass key that had been sitting in my pocket.
