She scoffed and headed toward the kitchen. “Well, remember while you’re dusting. You’re twenty and still don’t know how to keep a house presentable. This place is filthy.”
I swallowed my response. For a year, I let her behave as if the house were still hers. Avoiding conflict felt easier—until one rainy afternoon in May changed everything.
The front door flew open, followed by the unmistakable sound of suitcase wheels rattling across the hardwood floors my father had lovingly restored.
“Hello? Anyone home?” my brother Tyler called out.
When I stepped into the entryway, my heart sank. Tyler stood there with his wife, Gwen, surrounded by at least eight oversized suitcases.
“What’s going on?” I asked, dread already curling in my stomach.
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