“You made it public,” I said, “right here, ten minutes ago, when you announced Kyle’s fresh start like it was something to celebrate.”
I clicked to the next slide.
“Here is the U-Haul confirmation email. Fifteen-foot truck reserved by Gerald Seward. Pick up in Ohio. Drop off at my address.”
A murmur moved through the room.
People leaned toward each other and whispered behind raised hands.
“And here are Kyle and Brittany in my bedroom. My actual bedroom.”
The next video played.
Kyle appeared on my bed with his shoes on my duvet.
“Myra is pathologically non-confrontational,” his voice said through the speakers.
I turned toward him.
“Surprise, Kyle. I’m confronting.”
Kyle’s face shifted through confusion, recognition, panic, denial, and fury in the space of three seconds.
“This is our family,” he said, stepping forward. “You don’t air this stuff in public.”
“I didn’t move into someone else’s home without permission,” I said. “You did.”
