Not your room. Not your house.
Space. An asset to be redistributed.
I touched the gray wall where my wedding photograph had hung.
A tiny nail hole remained beneath the fresh paint. They had missed it.
Louis had measured twice and still hung it crooked. I teased him for twenty years about it.
Suddenly I understood.
This wasn’t about a bedroom.
I turned around. Neither of them spoke.
Then Sabine smiled again. That patient, reasonable smile.
And said two words that changed everything.
“For now.”
My hand tightened around my keys.
For now.
Because suddenly I realized… the bedroom was only the first room they believed they could take.
What was she really planning to do next?
And what had my own son already agreed to?
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The keys bit into my palm so hard the metal teeth left marks.
Sabine didn’t flinch. She held that smile like it was a shield, her arms still crossed, her weight shifted to one hip as if she owned the hallway. Darien’s hand slid down the stair rail an inch. His knuckles were white.
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to.
I turned away from that gray room and walked straight past them. My suitcase wheel squeaked against the hardwood, a thin, ugly sound.
“Mom, wait,” Darien said.
I didn’t wait.
The hallway air was cold. The house smelled wrong. Not like my lavender cleaner and Louis’s old coffee. Like fresh paint and Sabine’s expensive diffuser, something sharp and floral trying too hard to cover everything.
I pushed open the side door to the garage.
The light was bare and buzzing.
And there it was. My life stacked like storage.
The walnut bed frame was taken apart, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The mattress stood on its side, plastic still half-torn from when Louis and I had bought it. Boxes were taped shut and labeled in thick black marker in Sabine’s handwriting. BEDDING. PHOTOS. MISC.
