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“You never asked me.”
Her expression sharpened. “Because I knew you’d turn it into a drama.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. Around us, guests were snapping selfies by the fireplace.
A child ran past with icing smeared on both hands. The DJ announced the couple’s first dance as if my entire life weren’t being commandeered three feet from the dessert table.
“You announced you were moving into my home at your wedding reception,” I said. “At a reception I hosted.”
Christine’s cheeks flushed.
“Don’t embarrass me in front of my guests.”
“Your guests?” I shot back. “You mean the people standing in my house?”
Michael finally stepped in. “Kate, we can talk later.”
But something inside me had already settled—cold, steady, final.
I looked at both of them and said, clearly, “You are not moving into my house.
Not next month. Not next week. Not ever.”
That should have been the end.
It wasn’t.
Because three weeks later, on a gray Tuesday morning, I came home early with a migraine—and found a moving truck in my driveway.
For one strange second, I assumed it belonged to a neighbor.
The truck was massive, parked crooked, its back door hanging open like a mouth. Then I saw Christine’s floral suitcase on my porch and Michael carrying a boxed television toward my front door.
I pulled up to the curb so hard my tires scraped.
I got out and shouted, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Michael froze. Christine stepped out of the truck in leggings and sunglasses, iced coffee in hand, as if this were a casual weekend errand instead of an invasion.
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