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 sat on the edge of my bed, hands clasped, staring at the soft orange glow rising behind the ridge.

Move-in day.

My coffee went cold, untouched on the nightstand. Today was the day they said they would come.

I made my way downstairs, each creak of the wooden steps echoing through the silence. I spread the paperwork across the kitchen table again—the deed, the mortgage, the tax statements, the insurance policy—my own armor laid out in rows of neat legal language.

My phone vibrated.

A text message from Mom, timestamped 5:42 a.m.

We’re leaving now. Have the front door unlocked.

I stared at the words until my vision blurred.

Not a question. Not a request.

An order.

The sun was barely above the treetops when the rumble of an engine drifted up the hill. I stepped to the window just as the white moving truck appeared around the bend, followed closely by my parents’ SUV and Lydia’s minivan.

The three vehicles pulled into my driveway in a tight formation, as if they were an invading force.

Doors opened. Bodies spilled out.

Owen was the first to shout.

“We’re home! Grandma said we live here now!”

My pulse stuttered painfully.