A week later, I heard a car door slam outside while I was making coffee. I looked out the window and nearly dropped the mug.
My parents were walking up my driveway like they owned the place.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. It felt like a nightmare where your body refuses to run.
I opened the door before they could knock, more out of anger than hospitality.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “How did you even get my address?”
My mother looked proud, like she’d solved a puzzle.
“Clara hired a private investigator,” she said.
“A private investigator?” I repeated, disbelief turning my voice sharp. “Are you serious right now?”
My father’s eyes were scanning my house, taking it in the way a shopper looks at a price tag. He whistled low.
“This is a nice place,” he said.
“Get off my property,” I snapped.
But my mother pushed past me and walked into my living room anyway, touching the back of my couch, examining a framed photo on the mantel like she was at an open house.
My father followed.
Shock froze me for half a second, then anger unfroze me.
“Don’t make yourselves comfortable,” I said. “You’re not staying.”
My mother was already walking from room to room, calculating.