She called our mother before I even hung up.
“Mom, she actually called the cops,” she said loudly, pacing like she was the victim in all of this.
I stood there, looking around at what she had already done. Her coat hung on my banister. Her keys sat in a bowl on my table. A framed photo of her and her son had been placed on my kitchen counter like a quiet claim.
My mother arrived before the police.
Of course she did.
Elaine swept into the house like she owned it, her eyes landing on Jenna first, then on me.
“What have you done?” she demanded.
I laughed, short and sharp. “I called the police because Jenna broke into my house.”
“She didn’t break in,” my mother said immediately. “Your father had a key.”
“No,” I said. “He didn’t.”
“He must have. Jenna had one.”
The logic was almost impressive in how little sense it made.
“I never gave Dad a key,” I said. “So either you copied it or took it. Which is it?”
Her expression shifted—no more pretending. Just expectation.
“You have three bedrooms,” she said. “Jenna and Mason need somewhere to stay. This house is too big for just you.”
There it was. Not even a question.
A decision already made.
“Did you ask me?” I said.
“You would’ve said no.”
“Yes,” I said simply.
Jenna jumped in, her voice rising. “So you’d rather let your nephew struggle than help me?”
I looked at the boxes, the furniture, the way she had already begun living there.
“Temporary?” I asked. “You’ve already picked rooms.”
Before she could answer, red and blue lights flashed through the windows.
The silence that followed was different.
Real.
The officers stepped inside, calm, observant, taking everything in—the rearranged furniture, the boxes, the personal items scattered through the space.
“I’m the homeowner,” I said. “She entered without permission. I never authorized this.”
Jenna tried to talk over me, but the officer held up a hand and focused on me first.
Then he turned to her.
“Do you have permission to be here?”
