The lights were already on when I pulled into the driveway. That was my first warning. I remember pausing on the porch, key halfway to the lock, when I saw the faint silhouettes through the curtain. Two figures. Familiar. Too familiar.
When I stepped inside, the air was thick with something I couldn’t name. My parents sat on the couch like they’d been waiting for me. My mother was smiling—the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. My father leaned back, his hand resting on a folder on the coffee table.
Welcome home,” my mother said softly. “We thought we’d surprise you.”
I glanced around. My paintings were gone. My shelves rearranged. The house didn’t feel like mine anymore. It felt occupied.
“It’s a family property now,” she added, tone casual, rehearsed.
My father nodded in quiet agreement.
I didn’t argue. I just said evenly, “I know.”
They thought I was stunned. I wasn’t. I’d been expecting this. Two months earlier, I’d called to tell them I’d bought my first house. A modest two-story with a garden and a leaky fence, but it was mine. Finally mine. After years of working through college, balancing two jobs, and saving every spare dollar, I’d done it.
