I stared at the screen long enough for it to buzz twice, and something in my chest tightened like a knot you recognize from childhood. I answered anyway.
“Bonnie,” she said, like she was calling a receptionist. No hello. No congratulations. No pause to pretend she was happy for me. “We’re moving in tomorrow.”
For a second, I thought I’d misheard. The waves crashed and receded. My new kitchen still smelled faintly like fresh paint and lemon oil. There was a half-unpacked box by the front door labeled LINENS, written in my own careful block letters.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“Your father says it’s fine,” Victoria replied. Her voice was calm, clipped, already bored with the conversation. “Paige wants the upstairs room with the balcony. We’ll take the primary suite. You can use one of the smaller bedrooms, since you don’t need much space anyway.”
I sat up so fast the duvet slid off my legs. “Victoria. This is my house.”
She laughed once—dry, dismissive. “It’s a house. And family shares. We’ll be there around ten. Make sure there’s coffee.”
The final sentence landed like a slap wrapped in silk.
“If you don’t like it,” she added, “you can find somewhere else to live.”
The line went dead.