The temperature in the room dropped. Mom’s eyes narrowed. Tyler laughed. Gwen smirked.
“Come on, Katie,” Tyler said, dragging the bags in anyway. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is the family home. We’re family.”
They marched upstairs as if I were a stranger standing in the wrong doorway. And just like that, the invasion began.
Life in My Own Prison
Weeks turned to months. My home became unrecognizable — laundry stinking in the washer, food disappearing from the fridge, dishes stacked like monuments to their entitlement.
When Gwen announced her pregnancy one morning, she waved the test kit in my face like a trophy. “I guess we won’t be moving out anytime soon,” she said sweetly.
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