I yelp into the fridge at my mom's voice and slowly turn around, arms full of tupperware containers. Surprisingly, my dad is standing there too, hovering nervously over Mom's shoulder. That doesn't look good.

"Yes?" I try to look as dignified as anyone can with streaked mascara and six meals worth of leftovers tucked under her chin.

Mom, mercifully, doesn't comment on my disastrous appearance. "Can you sit, please? We'd like to talk to you."

With a mournful look at my noodles, I reluctantly put them back in the fridge and follow my parents to the kitchen table. They both sit at one end. I sit at the other. I feel, suddenly, like I'm at a hearing and my lawyer forgot to show.

"What is it?" I hear the quiver in my own voice. I don't think I can handle any more bad news today.

Mom takes Dad's hand and tells me, "Lissa, you know your father and I have always supported your decisions. We understand that you're young and figuring out your path in life."

"Uh-huh." I sense a 'but' coming.

"But..." She lets the word linger for a little. "You're twenty-four now."

I wince at this reminder that my childhood is over. "That hurts, Mom."

Dad speaks up, his English heavily accented with his native Italian. "You're twenty-four and you do the same thing as when you was sixteen. Except now, you go to work instead of school. It's no good."

My mouth drops open, and Mom is quick to rush in, "We're just afraid that you're missing out. You seem a little stuck, and we don't want you to look back on this time of your life and have regrets."

My stomach twists. Not this talk. The what-are-you-doing-with-your-life question is something I spend every waking minute trying to avoid, and I don't feel remotely ready for this conversation. "I'm not stuck. I'm happy."

"You think you're happy," Dad says kindly. "But you won't be happy when you're thirty-four and still live with your parents."

"Hey, have a little faith!" I smile at him, trying to lighten the mood. "I totally will. Papà, ti voglio bene."

"Anch'io ti voglio bene." He kisses his fingers and turns them towards me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But you need to live your life. This, it's no living. It's waiting."

Mom nods, and takes a deep breath like she's preparing herself. "Which is why we've decided it's time for you to move out."

"O-kaaay." I draw the word out, not sure where they're going with this. "So, what, you want me to find my own place this year?"

"Not this year. This month. This week, actually."

There it is. Shoe. Dropped. I push my chair back from the table. "How do I find an apartment in a week? I don't even know what's available, or what my budget is! And it's going to take me at least a week to pack."

"Okay, not a week exactly." Mom waves a hand. "But as soon as possible. Dad and I have already bookmarked some listings for you to look at, nice neighborhoods and not too expensive. You'll have to get a roommate, though."

No no no. I can't afford an apartment right now. I just lost half my income. Not to mention that living on my own, or with a roommate or whatever, makes the top 5 on my list of Scary Things Adults Do. What happens if someone breaks in? Or there's a power outage in winter? Or I leave the stove on or I drop my hair dryer in the bathtub or...

I'm on the edge of a downward spiral when I remember something. "Wait, what about Great Aunt Meryem's house? Didn't your renters move out in February? I can move in there. She always said she wanted me to have that house."

Just the thought of it makes me warm and fuzzy. My mom's parents moved to Florida right after I was born—guess the novelty of grandkids wore off after number six—but my mom's aunt Meryem stayed on the little island of St. Martin's and basically became my substitute grandma. Her house was something out of a fairytale, with an acre of woods, a beautiful garden, and a tower with all its windows looking out towards the lake. She slept in the room at the top of the tower, and when I stayed over, I would creep into her room to watch the sunrise over the water. I dreamt about living there like most little girls dream about getting married.

"We're selling the house," Dad says matter of factly. "Too expensive."

My expression probably resembles someone who's just discovered a knife in their back, because Mom immediately says, "We didn't want to. I always loved the idea of giving that house to one of my kids. But none of them have settled down here, except Enzo, and he says it doesn't fit his bachelor lifestyle."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. "Give it to me! I'm settling down here, and I love that house."

"Lissa." Mom gives me a 'get real' look. "You don't know the first thing about owning a house."

"I do so," I scoff, desperately trying to think of something adult and house ownership-y to prove it. "Mmm...mortgages."

My parents are unimpressed.

"What about them?" Dad crosses his arms.

"You pay them." I think that's right. Encouraged by the surprise on their faces, I barrel on. "And sometimes, if they don't work out, you get a second mortgage. And then you and your first mortgage go to court for a settlement and decide that your first mortgage gets the kids every weekend and you have every other holiday, except your second mortgage decides that she wants to spend Thanksgiving with her parents, so you—"

"Lissa!" Mom rolls her eyes. "You've never even lived on your own. The truth is, we should have done this a long time ago. It's too much work to keep up with renting it and, as much as it hurts me to get rid of my aunt's house, we just can't afford to keep it."

"Please? I can figure it out." Probably. With time. And help. "Just give me a chance."

Dad shakes his head. "Tesoro..."

"You work part time for minimum wage," Mom points out. "You can't afford to own a house! It would ruin you financially, and we can't be responsible for that." She must see how upset I am, because she softens. "Maybe you could talk to the Walsh's. See if they can take you on full time, or if they have friends who can fill in the hours you're not with them."

My eyes get hot with tears. I tip my head down so they can't see, letting my hair fall over my face. This is probably the very worst time to tell them this, but I have no choice.

"I got fired," I mumble, still staring at the floor.

"What?"

"I got fired!" The words tear out of me, way too loud, and my explanation comes out in hysteric bursts. "I was just—the tomatoes—and it was just a butterknife—and she was across the island—and—I promised her we'd play dress-up!"

Mom comes around the table to wrap me in her arms. As I cry into her shoulder, her fingers stroking my hair soothingly, I realize my parents are never going to give me this house. How can I convince them I'm an adult when I can't even convince myself? When I still need my mom to hug me and tell me everything's going to be okay after a bad day?

"Can I at least," I hiccup. "Stay there until the house sells?"

She stiffens under me.

I pull back. "What's wrong?"

Dad rubs a hand over his thinning hair. "Well... we.... We hired a contractor. He's staying in the guesthouse."

"Okay, well, I can still stay in the main house right?" I'm not seeing the problem.

My parents exchange a glance. There's something they're not telling me.

"Who's the contractor?" I ask.

And yet, I know the answer before she says it. It's the only answer that I could possibly get on a horrible day like this.

"Jamie. We hired Jamie."