“This is my house.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You have four bedrooms. I can’t afford rent. The kids need stability. Mom said you’d be selfish to say no.”
Then my mother appeared, holding a laundry basket.
“Don’t overreact—”
I raised my hand.
The room went quiet.
My father stood near the stairs, avoiding my eyes.
I looked around—my home taken over, my family acting like it belonged to them—and I smiled.
Sienna relaxed.
“I knew you’d understand.”
I took out my phone.
“I do understand,” I said. “You broke into my house.”
Then I called the police.
My mother gasped.
“Put the phone down.”
I didn’t.
“There are people inside my home without permission,” I told the dispatcher. “They’re moving their belongings in.”
Sienna snapped,
“Are you crazy? My kids are here.”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought them into a house that isn’t yours.”
My father finally spoke.
“This doesn’t need to become legal.”
“It did the moment you opened my door.”
His silence told me everything.
“You used my spare key,” I said.
My mother replied,
“We were helping Sienna.”
“You used my emergency key to move her in while I was gone.”
“That sounds worse than it is,” she said.
“It is worse.”
The movers hesitated, unsure what to do.
“Stop unloading,” I told them.
