I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped inside. The air smelled like strangers, and my mother’s things were missing—replaced by tacky decor and takeout containers.
Then I saw her.
Some woman lounging in Mom’s robe, sipping wine from Mom’s glass, smirking like she owned the place.
“Colin and I need our space,” she announced, nodding to my packed suitcases.
I almost laughed.
For a year, I’d tolerated Colin’s freeloading, honoring Mom’s dying wish to “give him time.” But this? Bringing his girlfriend into our home? Thinking they could evict me?
I made one call.
When the lawyer arrived with the will and the cops showed up with an eviction notice, Colin’s face went white. “You’re really doing this?”
“No,” I said, picking up Mom’s favorite mug from the donation box he’d packed. “You did.”
