When I Moved Into My First House, I Came Home One Night To Find My Parents Sitting In The Living Room. When I Asked Why, My Mom Smiled And Said: “We’ll Treat It Like A Family Place Now.” I Didn’t Argue.

The wind had been wild earlier, so I assumed Gary had blown over. But when I checked the porch, he was gone. Not behind the bush, not near the fence.

Weird. I frowned, climbed the steps, and slid my key into the lock. The door creaked open, and the quiet I loved vanished.

Sitting on my couch—my couch, the one I dragged up the stairs alone while cursing gravity—were my parents. Like a sitcom with the laugh track missing. Dad had his shoes off.

Mom was sipping tea from my favorite mug, the one that said, “Property of the woman who pays the mortgage.”

“Oh, good,” Mom said, smiling like she’d been waiting for her cue. “You’re home. We figured you wouldn’t mind.”

I blinked.

“Mind what?”

She gestured around the room like she was a realtor giving a tour. “Making this a family property now.”

Family property. Like I was supposed to just nod and say, “Sure, let’s rewrite the last 20 years.”

I set the takeout bag on the counter and carefully started lining up the soy sauce packets one by one, to keep my hands from shaking.

Mom always mistook composure for consent. “You work such early hours,” Dad said casually. “We took the master bedroom.

You’ll want the smaller one near the garage. Less noise.”

I smiled. “How thoughtful.”

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