I’ll call you tomorrow. Weird. That word hit me hard.
I sat on my bed, staring at the suitcases still cluttering my living room. Mom was humming in the kitchen, moving my stuff around like she’d already claimed it. Dad’s laughter echoed from the TV.
This wasn’t temporary. They were settling in, and I was losing control of my own home. I needed answers fast.
The next day, I watched them closer. My mom was in my living room now, moving my bookshelves, stacking my novels like they were hers. “This could use a better layout,” she said, not even glancing at me.
My dad was pacing near the window, muttering about how my balcony needed new railings. “We could fix this place up, Miranda,” he said, his tone too casual, like he was planning a renovation. I stood by the kitchen counter, gripping my coffee mug.
