My 11-year-old daughter came home, yet her key no longer fit the door. She waited for five hours in the rain — until my mother appeared and said coldly, “We’ve decided you and your mom don’t live here anymore.” I didn’t cry. I just said, “Understood.” Three days later, a letter arrived… and what my mother read made her collapse to her knees.

“My key doesn’t work. It won’t go in. I think they changed the lock.”

They?”

“Grandma, maybe Aunt Brittany.”

I rubbed my forehead. “They wouldn’t change the lock without telling me.” A sniffle. “Can you come home?”

I glanced at the clock. Another hour before I could leave. “Honey, right now we’re swamped. Try calling Grandma or Aunt Brittany. They’re probably home.”

“I did,” she said quietly. “No one’s answering.”

“Keep trying. I promise someone will open the door soon.” When the call ended, I stood there, telling myself it was nothing. A mix-up. An accident.

Two hours later, I looked again. Four more missed calls. One text: Mom, I think they’re here. Please come. My stomach dropped. I called her. She picked up mid-sob. “Mom, they won’t let me in.”

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