told me not to.
More importantly, my parents asked me not to.
At nine the next morning, I met them for breakfast at a quiet diner.
For the first time in months, Mom ate at a real table without asking permission.
That thought nearly ruined the meal for me.
But my parents did not want anger.
They wanted clarity.
At ten fifteen, Inez arrived at the workshop carrying two folders and a laptop.
She hugged Mom, shook Dad’s hand, and got straight to work.
“The house is safe,” she said.
