I still remember that morning clearly because nothing about it felt unusual. I left my apartment at exactly 7:30 a.m., locking the door behind me the way I had done every weekday for the past three years.
The hallway smelled faintly of cleaning detergent, the elevator took too long as usual, and the city outside buzzed with its familiar chaos. I had no idea that by the time I returned home, my life would feel like it had been ripped out from under me.
Work was exhausting that day. Meetings piled on top of each other, emails kept coming, and my boss was in one of those moods where nothing seemed good enough. By the time I finally checked my phone during a late lunch break, I noticed three missed calls from an unknown number. I ignored them, assuming it was spam or some delivery mistake. If only I had listened to the unease creeping into my chest then.
I clocked out around 6:15 p.m., drained and eager to get home. All I wanted was a hot shower and silence. As I turned onto my street, something immediately felt wrong. A large moving truck was parked directly in front of my building. Its engine was running, and the back doors were wide open. Two men were carrying furniture inside, laughing casually as if this was the most normal thing in the world.
At first, I thought maybe a neighbor was moving in or out. But then I recognized the couch they were hauling. It was mine. The same dark gray couch I had saved for months to buy, with a small tear on the left armrest from when my cat had scratched it as a kitten.
My heart started pounding so hard it felt like it might break my ribs. I parked hastily, barely turning off the engine, and rushed toward the building.
“Hey!” I shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
One of the movers turned to me, confused. “Ma’am, we’re just doing our job.”
“That’s my furniture,” I said, my voice shaking. “That’s my apartment.”
The men exchanged glances. One of them pulled out his phone and checked something. “We were hired to move everything into Unit 3B,” he said calmly.
“I live in 3B,” I snapped. “No one hired you.”
Before I could say more, I saw someone step out from behind the moving truck. The moment our eyes met, the world seemed to stop.
It was my older sister, Laura.
For a second, I honestly thought I was hallucinating. Laura and I hadn’t spoken in over two years. Not since the argument after our father’s funeral, when she accused me of abandoning the family and I accused her of trying to control my life. The last thing I expected was to see her standing outside my home, clipboard in hand, directing movers like she owned the place.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Laura looked startled, then composed herself quickly. “You weren’t supposed to be back yet,” she said.
That sentence sent a chill down my spine. “What does that mean?”
She sighed dramatically, as if I were the one inconveniencing her. “Look, we can talk about this later. Right now, the movers need to finish.”
“No,” I said firmly. “We’re talking now.”
The movers awkwardly stepped aside, clearly sensing they were caught in something messy. Laura crossed her arms and looked at me with the same expression she used to wear when we were kids and she thought she was right about everything.
“After Dad died,” she began, “you left. You moved here, cut everyone off, and started living like none of us existed.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “I needed space. You know how things were.”
She ignored me. “Mom has been struggling. She can’t live alone anymore. She needs help, and you’re the only one with enough space.”
I stared at her, disbelief turning into anger. “So you decided to move her into my apartment without telling me?”
“Yes,” Laura said flatly. “And not just Mom. I’m moving in too. Temporarily.”
I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You broke into my home. You hired movers. You touched my things. Do you have any idea how insane this is?”
“I have a key,” she replied.
That’s when everything clicked. The spare key. The one I had given Mom years ago, back when we were still close. My hands began to shake.
