The front door was unlocked.
Inside, I froze.
My living room had been rearranged.
My cream sofa was shoved against the opposite wall. The bookshelf I had spent an entire Saturday assembling was half-empty. Two framed prints were stacked on the floor. My dining chairs had been moved into the kitchen, and three cardboard boxes labeled JENNA – BEDROOM sat beside the staircase.
From upstairs I heard drawers opening and closing.
Then my sister’s voice drifted down, light and casual.
“Mom, the guest room is smaller than I thought, but I can make it work.”
For a second, I truly couldn’t move.
Then Jenna appeared halfway down the stairs, holding one of my throw blankets and wearing that same infuriating expression she used when she believed the hardest part—taking what she wanted—was already done.
“Oh,” she said with a smile. “You’re home early.”
I stared at her. “What are you doing in my house?”
She rolled her eyes like I was the problem. “Relax. Mom said you’d be dramatic at first.”
At first.
That phrase told me everything. This wasn’t impulsive. This was a decision made without me.
I looked past her and saw my jewelry dish from the bedroom now sitting on the hallway console downstairs. My mail had been moved. My closet upstairs stood open.
Something inside me went cold.
“Where did you get a key?” I asked.
Jenna shrugged. “The spare one. Dad still had it from when he helped with your move.”
I had never given my father a spare key.
That was when I realized this wasn’t just a sister crossing lines. It was theft. Unauthorized access. Entry based on entitlement.
I pulled out my phone.
Jenna’s smile flickered.
“Lauren, don’t be insane.”
I looked her straight in the eye and pressed call.
“911,” I said when the operator answered. “My sister broke into my home, and she’s inside moving her belongings in.”
