My 11-year-old daughter came home, yet her key no longer fit the door. She waited for five hours in the rain — until my mother appeared and said coldly, “We’ve decided you and your mom don’t live here anymore.” I didn’t cry. I just said, “Understood.” Three days later, a letter arrived… and what my mother read made her collapse to her knees.

When their cars finally pulled away, I stood there alone in the drizzle. I went inside. The air smelled like dust and perfume. I opened windows, letting the rain air drift through. That evening, I picked up Hannah from school. “Are we moving again?” she asked.

“Home,” I said. The word felt strange. When we walked through the door, the house echoed. She ran from room to room. “This is ours again,” she said.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “It always was.”

It’s been six months. Hannah and I haven’t spoken to any of them. I blocked every number. Peace looks good on a screen. I still get updates. Small-town gossip doesn’t need permission. Apparently, Mom moved in with Brittany and Ryan. It lasted a month before things exploded. Mom started redecorating their house. Ryan didn’t take it well. They had a huge fight, and she locked him out. Cops got called again. He moved out a week later. Now, Mom and Brittany live together, which everyone says is going great, if you define “great” as two people passive-aggressively competing for oxygen. Their latest argument made it onto Facebook Marketplace comments. Mom was selling Brittany’s old dining set. Brittany replied, “You don’t even live here.” Beautiful symmetry.

As for us, we’re good. Hannah’s been helping me in the garden. She says everything grows faster when you stop shouting at it. The house is quiet. No new locks, no new storms. And best of all, no one’s tried to move in.

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