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.

I wiped my palms on my jeans, pacing.

I needed to check the back door. The garage. The deck door.

They knew too many ways into this house.

I hurried through the cabin, locking every window, sliding every bolt. My breath quickened as I checked the mudroom. The lock held tight. Then I checked the basement door, its frame old but strong.

I pressed my palm to the cool wood.

No one was coming in.

Not today.

Returning to the living room, I glanced at the curtains and pulled them closed. The walls vibrated faintly with shouts outside, voices rising and falling, incredulous that I wasn’t bending, wasn’t folding the way I always had.

My phone buzzed in my back pocket.

A text from Mrs. Rowan.

They told the UPS guy earlier that they’re moving in. Permanently.

My throat tightened.

Permanently.

They had rehearsed this. They had distributed the story. They had spread it like seeds across the community, ensuring it would sprout into something believable before I had a chance to deny it.

I typed back with trembling fingers.

Thank you for letting me know. Please don’t engage with them. They’re not speaking for me.

She responded,

I know. And if you need anything—anything at all—you call me.