I let my sister use my house for her wedding reception. By the end of the night, she had already told everyone she was moving in. When the moving

“We got here earlier than expected,” she said.

“Can you unlock the side gate? The bedroom set is heavy.”

I actually glanced behind me, half expecting a camera crew to jump out and reveal some cruel hidden prank. “Are you insane?”

Her mouth tightened.

“There’s no reason to act like this.”

“No reason?” I walked up the driveway, my heart pounding so hard it made me unsteady. “I told you at the wedding you were not moving in.”

Christine removed her sunglasses slowly, as though I were the unreasonable one. “You were emotional.

I didn’t take that seriously.”

I stared at her.

That sentence hit harder than the wedding announcement. Not because it was louder, but because it was sharper. Colder.

It meant that what I said, what I wanted, what I owned—none of it mattered unless she approved.

“You didn’t take me seriously,” I repeated.

Michael set the television down. “Kate, just let us get settled. We only need six months.

Maybe a year, tops. We’ll help with bills.”

“You can’t ‘help with bills’ in a house you were never invited into.”

Christine threw up her hands. “Why are you doing this?

You live alone. Half the rooms are empty. Do you know what people will think if you throw us out on the street?”

There it was.

Not regret. Not confusion. Pressure.

Image. Leverage.

I pulled out my phone.