At the time, it sounded harmless. A favor for family.
Three days before our long-saved family vacation, my sister-in-law Mandy called in tears. Her apartment renovation, she claimed, had turned into a nightmare—dust everywhere, no kitchen, nowhere to breathe.
“I’ll barely be there,” she promised. “I just need somewhere quiet for the week.”
Against my better judgment, we handed over our keys. We left behind a spotless house, fresh sheets, and a handwritten note on the fridge: Make yourself at home. Merry Christmas.
For seven days, life felt perfect. Ocean air, sandy feet, kids laughing until sunset. On our last night, our son Max asked if we could stay forever. I thought we’d brought that peace home with us.
We hadn’t.
The moment we opened the door, the smell told us everything. Sour. Stale. Wrong.
The kitchen looked wrecked—overflowing trash, bottles everywhere, sticky counters. The couch was stained. In Max’s room, his lamp was shattered, glass ground into the carpet. Our daughter Lily’s stuffed animals were tossed aside, drawers pulled open like someone had gone digging.
“Did we get robbed?” Max whispered.
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