Kelsey did not speak to me.
Ryan barely did.
My parents paid for the crew because Ryan’s credit card declined on the deposit.
Furniture that had entered my home as a victory parade left as evidence.
The sectional got stuck again.
A dresser chipped the stair trim.
Kelsey cried when her mother asked where everything was going because there was no new home waiting.
Their belongings went into a storage unit near the highway.
They checked into an extended stay hotel outside Annapolis with a kitchenet, two queen beds, and a weekly rate my father pretended not to hate.
Before [snorts] leaving, my mother said, “I hope you are proud.”
I looked around my scratched floor, patched wall, and half-empty foyer.
“I am,” I said. “I am proud I finally protected what belongs to me.”
The video Kelsey posted did more damage than the move itself.
She had filmed everything before the folder ruined her fantasy: the front porch, the street corner, the kitchen, Ryan carrying boxes, her parents cheering, my mother crying, and a caption that said, “After years of waiting, our family finally has the home we deserve.”
