When we returned to our apartment that evening, I locked the front door behind us.
For the first time in a very long time, none of us was afraid of who might be waiting on the other side.
After I bought my dream lake house so I could recover in peace, my brother called to announce that he was moving in because Dad had approved it. By the next morning, however, the locks had been replaced and two police officers were waiting outside.
On my very first night in the lake house I had always dreamed of, my brother called to tell me I was being forced out.
Not by the bank.
Not by a judge.
By my own family.
“We’re moving in tomorrow,” Ryan said, as casually as if he were reading the weather forecast. “Dad approved it. If you don’t like it, live somewhere else.”
I stood barefoot in the kitchen among half-open moving boxes, staring through the windows at the dark lake. The house smelled of fresh paint and pine, and it held the first peaceful breath I had taken in half a year.
