I didn’t ask who “they” were. I U-turned so fast my coffee spilled. By the time I reached our driveway, my hands were trembling like they had the night I brought my son home from the hospital—equal parts fear and adrenaline.
I opened the door and froze.
Vira stood in the living room with a Sharpie and a stack of labels, like a general marking territory. Bashir hovered over our coffee table, flipping through photo albums with surgical precision. Storage bins ringed the couch. The ottoman was gutted. My file folders were fan-spread across the cushions like a magician’s trick. My journal—blue ribbon, cracked spine—lay face down on the rug.
“Hey, honey,” Vira chirped, as if I’d caught her frosting cupcakes. “You’re back early! We were just tidying. A surprise!”
Bashir didn’t bother with a smile. He looked at her, then me, then the photos—evaluation layered over embarrassment.
“Where’s Mark?” I asked.
“Oh,” Vira said, too lightly, “he’s running errands. He’ll be back soon.”
“You don’t have a key.”
“Mark gave us his,” Bashir replied, flat as a stamp.
Something cold lifted off the floor and settled in my chest.
I walked outside. I didn’t slam the door. I didn’t play their script. On the fourth call, Mark finally answered.
“Hey, babe,” he said, too casual. “Everything okay?”
“You gave your parents a key to our house?”
A beat. “Uh. Yeah. For emergencies.”
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