They never knocked. That’s what always got me—the quiet click of the key in our front door and the sudden presence of my in-laws in the kitchen, like the house itself had invited them.
“Be nice,” Aarav would whisper. “They helped us buy this place.”
And every time, I’d swallow my frustration because thirty percent of a down payment had somehow turned into thirty percent ownership. At least, that’s how they saw it.
But yesterday? Yesterday broke something open.
I came home early and walked into a nightmare dressed in politeness. My mail was spread across the coffee table—bills, insurance forms, even my medical statements. My journal sat open in Priya’s lap like she had every right to read my thoughts. And Rajan, her husband, was on speakerphone pretending to be Aarav, asking our internet provider for a list of “connected devices.”
They froze when I walked in. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even drop my bag. I just stood there, keys cutting into my palm, realizing the roaring in my ears was my own heartbeat.
Aarav mumbled something about them “helping organize.” I looked straight through him. That night, I didn’t sleep. Not from fear—just fury bright enough to light the dark.
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