I unlocked the front door and stopped short. The hallway reeked of bleach and cheap floral spray. Boxes lined the walls, labeled in thick black marker in Mom’s sharp script: “Kitchen,” “Bathroom,” “Mia’s Books.” My sneakers squealed against the freshly mopped floor as I rushed toward my bedroom.
The door stood wide open. My stomach sank.
Everything had vanished. The posters, the thrifted dresser, the mismatched nightstands I’d pieced together from Craigslist. Even the old twin mattress. The blinds hung bare, sunlight spilling over an empty carpet marked by vacuum lines. In the center of the room sat a single tied trash bag, like a deliberate insult.
I was still frozen there when Mom stepped up behind me. “Good,” she said, her tone flat. “You’re home.”
I turned, waiting for an explanation, for some terrible misunderstanding to clear. “Mom… what happened to my stuff?”
She looked through me with a coldness I had never seen. “Lauren, you can’t carry your burden here anymore,” she snapped. “You’re almost thirty. I am done waiting for you to figure your life out. Pack up your trash bag and find a new place.”