I walked past my family and went inside.
The cabin door was wide open. A mover I had never seen before was carrying an unfamiliar dresser through my living room. A recliner I did not own sat tilted near the entrance. My pantry had been opened, their food stacked on my shelves. My refrigerator door hung ajar, filled with things they had brought from home, crowded against my groceries as if I were not a separate person with a separate life.
I stood in the center of my living room and took a careful inventory of every surface. The side table where I kept my books had been cleared to make room for my mother’s reading glasses and a magazine she had brought. My throw blanket had been moved from the couch to a chair to make room for one of their coats. A pair of small rubber boots, children’s size, sat just inside the front door.
They had been in my house for hours. They had arranged it around themselves as if my presence in it were an inconvenience to be accommodated.
“Stop,” I said. “Everyone stop.”
