“You were upset,” my mother said quickly. “We assumed you would calm down.”
That sentence almost made me laugh, because it explained my whole childhood. Every no I ever gave was treated as a temporary illness they expected me to recover from.
I opened the door wider, keeping one hand visible on my phone. “I have security footage from Thursday showing you entered my house without permission. I also have video of all of you showing up today with furniture after I clearly told you no. If you do not leave my property, I’m calling the police.”
Travis scoffed. “You’d call the cops on your own family?”
“Yes.”
My father pointed at me. “You are acting like a spoiled little landlord.”
“No,” I said. “I’m acting like the homeowner.”
Brooke’s face twisted. “You think you’re better than us because you bought a house?”
“I think I bought a house because I worked for it, and you tried to move into it because you found my address in stolen mail.”
My mother flinched at the word stolen, but she recovered quickly. “I had a key to your apartment.”
“For emergencies,” I said. “Not for opening my private mail.”
For the first time, my father looked uncertain. Not sorry, but aware that the neighbors were indeed watching and that my phone was pointed directly at them.
The movers stood near the truck, uncomfortable and silent. One of them finally approached the porch and asked, “Ma’am, are we supposed to unload or not?”
“No,” I said before anyone else could answer. “No one here has permission to move anything into this house.”
Brooke spun toward him. “Give us a minute.”
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