“Mike,” I said, “I need background checks on my house guests. Full financial workup, employment history, legal history, social media deep dive. Rush fee.”
Mike chuckled. “How deep?”
“I want to know what they had for breakfast last Tuesday,” I replied.
When I returned to the house, the takeover had escalated.
Kevin—Melissa’s brother—had rearranged my living room furniture “for better TV viewing.” Rachel—Melissa’s sister—had corralled her teenagers into my upstairs guest rooms, where they’d discovered my art supplies and left colorful fingerprints on a wall like it was a community mural. Patricia was wearing my robe and drinking from my favorite mug as if she’d been issued both.
No one asked.
No one thanked me.
They acted like the house came with an older woman included, like a piece of outdated furniture you move upstairs when you want the living room.
At dinner, they ate steaks they’d “found” in my freezer. Brandon arrived late, smiling like a man pleased with his own logistics.
“Mom,” he said, sweeping into the kitchen. “There you are. Hope you’re ready for a real vacation.”
He kissed my cheek, and I felt the performance in the gesture.