And then, five months after I moved in, the nightmare got worse.
Larry’s sister came home.
Kelly.
Divorced, angry, and dragging a child behind her like a handbag.
She tossed her suitcase into the guest room and smiled at me like she’d already decided she hated me.
“It’s my fault really,” she confessed dramatically on day one, like she was proud of her chaos. “I made… choices. My husband couldn’t handle it.”
I didn’t ask what choices.
She offered anyway.
And the details were the kind of thing that makes you stare at someone and wonder how they’re still smiling.
Kelly didn’t work.
She didn’t cook.
She didn’t clean.
She lounged around the house, scrolling on her phone, disappearing on weekends, leaving her little daughter with me.
Whenever I complained, she rolled her eyes.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “You don’t have kids.”
Olivia backed her up.
Of course she did.
And then Kelly started taking things.
Small things at first.
Makeup.
Accessories.
A sweater.
A nice scarf.
I’d search the house, embarrassed, telling myself I must’ve misplaced them.
But then one day Kelly handed me a drawstring bag.
“Here,” she said casually, like she was asking me to hold her coat.
I looked inside.
My stomach dropped.