That I was getting confused.
At my birthday party, Jason leaned in close. His collar was damp with sweat.
He glanced at Tiffany, then back at me.
“Mom, there’s something else,” he whispered. “Tiffany, her daughters, and her mother are already moving into your house.”
Every sound in the room vanished for me.
The clinking glasses. The music. The nervous laughter.
So I decided to test them.
I told Jason I was leaving town for three days. I packed a bag, loaded my car, and waved goodbye.
Then I drove twenty minutes away and stayed with an old friend.
By noon the next day, my neighbor texted me.
“Margaret, is someone moving into your house? There’s a truck in your driveway.”
I drove straight home.
Inside, my living room was unrecognizable.
My armchair had been shoved against the wall.
My late husband’s side table was pushed into the hallway.
My framed photographs were stacked face-down by the staircase.
And in the center of the room sat an enormous cream-colored sectional I had never seen before.
Tiffany stood beside it with a clipboard, directing the movers like she owned the place.
Then she saw me.
Her face dropped.
“What are you doing here?”
She quickly recovered.
“You weren’t supposed to be back until Friday.”
Not “let me explain.” Not “we can talk about this.”
You weren’t supposed to be back.
That one sentence told me everything.
I pulled out my phone.
Her expression hardened. “Who are you calling?”
“Someone who can explain trespassing better than I can.”
Her mother appeared from the kitchen. “Margaret, don’t be ridiculous.”
