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 didn’t answer. I walked back inside, my hands trembling as I shut the front door. The cabin felt smaller than usual, the walls closing in around me. I leaned against the door, hearing the muffled voices outside—Mom giving instructions, Lydia ordering the movers to bring in more boxes, Dad telling the kids to “stay where I can see you.”

My sanctuary was dissolving around me.

And no one on the other side of that door cared.

I pushed myself upright and walked into the kitchen, breathing through the tightness in my chest. My phone felt heavy in my hand as I unlocked it. I scrolled to the number I’d searched last night, hesitated, then typed it in again.

A locksmith.

The closest one in Cedar County.

The cursor blinked on the call button.

My thumb hovered. If I called, there was no going back.

I closed my eyes, hearing Mom’s voice from outside—shrill, confident, claiming things that did not belong to her, claiming my life as if it were a piece of furniture she could rearrange.

Family adjusts.

Not anymore.

I pressed “Call.”

The line rang once, twice, three times.

“Walter’s Lock and Key,” a gruff voice answered.

I swallowed. “Hi. I need every lock on my house changed today.”