Came home for the holidays, but my mom opened the door and said, “You weren’t invited — this is for family only.” I turned around without a word; minutes later, my sister texted, “Don’t take it personally — you know how you are.” I smiled, froze the joint account, canceled the utility payments, and cut off every card; by morning, my voicemail was full — and the group chat was on fire.

I’d started touring apartments.

Nothing big, just one-bedroom places with big windows and kitchens where I could actually cook something besides stress and takeout.

I even met with a company about a job in operations.

Low stress, decent pay, and nobody knew my last name.

I was building something slowly, yes, but it was mine.

Then came a knock at my Airbnb door.

It was a light tap, almost hesitant.

I looked through the peepphole and felt my stomach drop.

There, standing in a damp coat, hair frizzed from rain and face pinched with tension, was my mom.

Behind her, arms crossed and eyes already narrowed, was Melanie.

I didn’t open the door right away.

I just stared through the peepphole like maybe I’d imagined them.

But nope.

There they were in all their tightly wound, entitled glory.

I took a deep breath and cracked the door open, keeping the chain locked.