I finally bought our dream home, and on day one my husband said: “my mom, my sister, and the kids are moving in, you don’t get a say!” he drove off to get them. And that evening, they froze at what they saw inside…

Olivia’s voice trembled with fury.

“You KNEW,” she hissed. “YOU KNEW THIS PLACE WAS DEFECTIVE!”

I closed my eyes and pictured them inside that charming little countryside home—the one with the ivy on the porch and the bright windows.

The one whose foundation was about as stable as their morals.

I kept my voice innocent, light, almost sweet.

“A defective house?” I repeated. “That can’t be right. Are you sure?”

A strangled noise came through the phone.

“You’re playing dumb!” Olivia snapped. “THE DOORS DON’T CLOSE! THE FLOORS… THEY SLOPE! THE WALLS—THE WALLS LOOK LIKE THEY’RE BREATHING!”

“Wow,” I murmured, like I was genuinely concerned. “That sounds… inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?!” Olivia exploded. “THE KITCHEN CABINETS WON’T OPEN! THE WINDOWS ARE STUCK! AND KELLY SWEARS SHE HEARD A CRACKING SOUND UNDER THE FLOOR!”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

In my head I saw it all: the bright catalog photos, the smiling agent, the fake excitement at dinner. Olivia’s greedy eyes and Larry’s clueless grin.

They’d thought a house was their prize.

They didn’t realize the prize came with a slow-collapse guarantee.

Olivia’s voice turned viciously low.