Sunday arrived with the kind of blue sky that made people believe consequences might be polite.
I was drinking coffee at my kitchen island when the first moving truck pulled up at 8:43 in the morning. It was not a huge truck, just one of those rented box vans with peeling graphics on the side, but behind it came Brooke’s silver sedan, my parents’ SUV, and a pickup truck driven by Brooke’s boyfriend, Travis, whose main contribution to life seemed to be owning straps and calling women emotional.
I watched them through the doorbell camera without moving.
Brooke got out wearing leggings, sunglasses, and the satisfied expression of someone who believed resistance was just a delay. My mother climbed from the SUV holding a casserole dish, because in her mind bringing food transformed trespassing into family bonding. My father opened the back hatch and pulled out two folding chairs, as if they were about to supervise a picnic instead of invade my home.
Travis carried a dresser drawer toward the porch first.
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