When I walked through the front door that night, I expected silence. Maybe the comforting hum of the fridge,

the smell of my lavender candle. Instead, I was hit with the sour sting of unfamiliar perfume, overcooked onions, and something else—something wrong.

The hallway lamp was askew. The rug crooked. One of Daniel’s armchairs had a muddy boot print on it.

I wasn’t alone.

I dropped my bag and followed the trail—into the kitchen, where my almond milk had been shoved behind someone else’s jam jars. The fridge was packed with food I didn’t buy. Leftovers labeled in handwriting I didn’t recognize.

Then I heard it. Water running. Upstairs.

I moved slowly, heart pounding with every creak of the stairs. The bathroom door was shut, steam curling out beneath it.

“Margaret?” I called.

A startled squeak. Then the door opened just a crack.

She stood there, dripping wet, wrapped in a towel like nothing was wrong.

“You’re back early,” she said.

I blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“House-sitting,” she replied, like it was obvious. “Someone had to keep an eye on the place.”

“You didn’t ask. You didn’t even tell me.” My voice trembled with disbelief.

She scoffed. “You’re gone half the time anyway. I figured it was fine.”

I looked around at the damage—the scuffed furniture, the pool pump wheezing out back, the clutter invading every surface.

“You’re not helping,” I said. “You’ve taken over. You don’t live here, Margaret. This isn’t your home.”

Her face twisted. “It was Daniel’s. And you never even gave him a child to carry on his name. Why should you get to keep it all?”

That hit like a punch to the chest. Not because it was true—but because it revealed everything I’d feared.

She didn’t want a connection. She wanted control.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just turned away, fists clenched. But before I could make it down the stairs, her phone rang.