At Dinner, My Sister Drenched Me In Wine, Shouting: “You Have Until Sunrise To Get Out Of My House!” My Parents Cheered Her On. I Just Smiled, Dropped A Key On The Table, And Replied: “THEN YOU HAVE 60 SECONDS…”

“Forty seconds,” I announced, watching Lauren’s fingers fumble with her phone. Her perfectly manicured nails clicked against the screen as she tried to dial, but her hands were shaking too badly to manage it.

“What does this key even mean?” my mother demanded, staring at the brass key I’d placed on the table as if it might bite her.

I picked up a napkin, dabbing at the wine on my face with deliberate calm.

“That key? That’s the master key to this house. The house that, as of last month, belongs to me.”

The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. Lauren’s phone slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor.

“What did you just say?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“You heard me correctly,” I said, pulling out a folder from my bag—the one I’d strategically placed by my chair before dinner. “This house, the one you’ve been lording over me from for the past five years, the one you inherited from Mom and Dad when they moved to Florida, the one you’ve been using as collateral for your lifestyle? It’s mine now.”

My father’s face turned an alarming shade of purple.

“That’s impossible. We gave Lauren this house free and clear.”

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