She slid it across the table.
I looked down. A typed invoice. Neat columns. My name printed at the top like I was a client.
“Guest-room accommodation,” I read slowly. “Food and utilities. Use of household amenities.”
Total: two thousand dollars.
I looked up at her, certain — certain — I had misread something.
“Melissa, you invited me here.”
“And you stayed in our home.” Her voice stayed smooth as glass. “You used our water, our electricity, our food, our air conditioning. That isn’t free.”
My face went hot.
“I bought groceries,” I said. “I cared for your children. I cleaned every room in this house. I cooked every meal.”
Her mouth pulled into a thin, flat line. “Nobody asked you to do those things. I’ll need the money before you leave tomorrow.”
I couldn’t speak.
I folded the invoice into a small, careful square, the way you fold something you don’t want to look at anymore.
“I don’t have two thousand dollars sitting available,” I finally said. “Please. Give me until morning.”
She leaned back in her chair, satisfied, already returning to her phone.
“Fine. But I expect to be paid, Margaret.”
