While I was at work, my parents, my sister, and her two kids were already hauling boxes into my mountain house. Mom smiled like it was settled. “We all live here now. It’s family property.” They planned their big “move-in day.” I planned something else.

But only when it benefited them.

Mom clapped her hands sharply.

“Let’s keep it moving. We still have a sofa and two dressers in the truck. We don’t have all day.”

We.

The word tasted bitter even in my mind.

I closed the curtains before they noticed me watching.

My phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Mrs. Rowan appeared on the screen.

Just checking on you, sweetheart. Are you okay?

I typed back, My handling it. Please don’t let them talk to you or say things on my behalf.

Her reply was immediate.

I won’t. But they’ve been asking around the neighborhood all week.

I froze.

All week.

A cold prickle moved over my skin. I stared at those two words as if they might rearrange themselves into something less incriminating. But no matter how many times I reread them, the message was the same.

This wasn’t a spontaneous takeover.

They had been preparing.

A hollow feeling opened in my stomach. My family hadn’t just impulsively decided to move into my home—they had surveyed the land, asked questions, spread stories, told the neighborhood they were expected here.

Maybe they even intended to establish residency before confronting me.

That’s why they acted so confident.