“You heard me.”
My mother gasped, my father’s expression darkened, and Brooke called me selfish the entire way to the driveway. But once they were gone, I did not cry. I called a locksmith, replaced every exterior lock, installed a camera doorbell, and saved the footage of them entering without permission.
Then I waited for Sunday….
Part 2
Sunday came with the sort of bright blue sky that made people think consequences might arrive politely.
I was having coffee at my kitchen island when the first moving truck rolled up at 8:43 in the morning. It was not a giant truck, just one of those rented box vans with faded graphics peeling along the side, but behind it came Brooke’s silver sedan, my parents’ SUV, and a pickup truck driven by Brooke’s boyfriend, Travis, whose greatest contribution to the world seemed to be owning tie-down straps and calling women emotional.
I watched them through the doorbell camera without getting up.
Brooke stepped out in leggings, sunglasses, and the smug expression of someone who believed resistance was only a temporary inconvenience. My mother got out of the SUV carrying a casserole dish, because in her mind, bringing food somehow turned trespassing into family togetherness. My father opened the rear hatch and took out two folding chairs, as if they were about to supervise a cookout instead of invade my home.
Travis was the first one to carry a dresser drawer toward the porch.
He tried the key.
The lock did not move.
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