Chapter 2 - Guests Don’t Redesign the House
The first week had been annoying enough to become funny.
Sarah moved my espresso machine because it:
“Ruined the workflow.”
I moved it back.
She left a basket of laundry outside my utility room with instructions for detergent temperature.
I dumped the clothes onto their bed.
David confronted me that evening.
“We both work long hours.”
“So?”
“We thought you could help.”
“You thought incorrectly.”
He stared as if I had violated some unwritten rule.
“You’re retired.”
“I’m not employed by your underwear.”
That ended the conversation.
For about twelve hours.
Then the spare keys disappeared.
Sarah said she had borrowed one.
David took another.
“For convenience.”
I asked for them back.
They laughed.
Not maliciously.
That almost made it worse.
Then Sarah put the oak console table on the curb.
My husband, Jack, restored that table himself.
Three winters of sanding and refinishing.
His fingerprints were probably still somewhere under the final coat.
Sarah had ordered a chrome replacement.
“The old one made the entryway look dated.”
I carried Jack’s table back inside.
“Do not move my furniture again.”
Sarah snapped her laptop shut.
“We live here too.”
“No.”
I looked directly at her.
“You are staying here.”
There is a difference between residence and ownership that entitlement hates hearing out loud.
That afternoon I put a deadbolt on my bedroom.
David saw it.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head.
“Mom, this is getting weird.”
The next week, he upgraded my internet and cable package.
Sports channels.
Gaming package.
Premium bandwidth.
My bill tripled.
I canceled the service.
Ten minutes later his game froze.
Sarah emerged from the office like somebody had cut the electricity to an operating room.
“I’m on a deadline!”
“Open your own account.”
That was when the house changed.
Not loudly.
They began watching me differently.
If I misplaced my glasses:
“Again, Lisa?”
If I forgot why I entered a room:
“You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
If I locked my bedroom:
“This paranoia isn’t healthy.”
Once, Sarah held up her phone while I searched for my car keys.
“Say that again.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She lowered it.
That night, I found the keys inside her handbag.
She claimed she had picked them up accidentally.
May you like
I did not accuse her.
I started writing dates down instead.
