Chapter 6 - Greg’s Desperate Visit
The front porch lights cast long, amber shadows across my driveway at eight that evening. Lily was in the living room doing her reading homework, the cheerful cadence of her small voice practicing sight words drifting down the hallway.
A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the door. Not the aggressive pounding of my mother or the dramatic entrance of Melissa. This was a timid, apologetic tap.
I looked through the peephole and saw Greg.
He was standing alone under the porch light, wearing a faded work jacket over a rumpled flannel shirt. He had his hands jammed deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward as if trying to shrink his six-foot-two frame. He looked ten years older than thirty-six; deep bags hung under his bloodshot eyes, and his jaw was covered in two days of graying stubble.
I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door six inches. "Greg."
"Nora," he said, clearing his throat. His voice was hoarse. "Please. Just five minutes. I’m not here to yell. I swear to God I’m not here to cause a scene."
I looked past him toward the street. His truck was parked at the curb, its headlights turned off. No Melissa. No kids.
"Lily is finishing her homework," I said. "Keep your voice down."
I stepped back and allowed him into the foyer, leaving the front door cracked open behind him. He didn't step onto the hardwood floor; he stayed planted on the heavy entry mat, staring down at his scuffed work boots like an employee called into the CEO’s office for termination.
"I got the email from Arthur Vance this afternoon," Greg said, his voice cracking slightly. "The notice of lease modification and the default cure demand."
"Then you know what it entails," I said.
"Nora, please," he choked out, bringing a rough, calloused hand up to rub his face. "Six hundred dollars a month is all we can scrape together right now. My supply route barely covers the groceries and the utility bills. If you adjust the rent to fair market value—twenty-four hundred a month—we’re on the street. We’ll be evicted in sixty days. There’s nowhere we can go. My credit is ruined. No bank will touch us."
"You should have thought about that before you stood by the grill yesterday and watched your wife encourage your sons to terrorize my six-year-old child," I said without an ounce of warmth.
"I didn't encourage them!" he protested weakly. "I was on the other side of the patio, Nora! By the time I turned around, Melissa was already making a joke out of it—"
"A joke?" I interrupted, stepping forward until he was forced to meet my gaze. "Your sons threw my daughter into the dirt. They smeared filth into her hair. And when she wept, your wife told her she was ruining everyone's holiday. And you, Greg? What did you do? You flipped another burger and looked at your phone."
Greg flinched. The shame in his eyes was palpable, heavy and suffocating.
"Melissa has never respected me," I continued. "She treats me like an ATM that exists to clean up your family’s disasters while she parades around town pretending you're wealthy. I tolerated it for Dad's sake. But the second she decided my daughter was an acceptable target for her cruelty, the charity ended. You have thirty days to pay the fair market rate or vacate the property."
"Nora, she’s your sister," he pleaded, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. "What do you want from us? What do we have to do?"
May you like
"I want Melissa to understand reality," I whispered. "And you have until Friday night to make sure she does."
***
