For one ridiculous second, I thought I had somehow walked up to the wrong house. That made no sense because I had spent seven brutal years saving for that white craftsman home in Portland. Every cabinet, every rosebush, every polished floorboard belonged to me — Amanda Blake, thirty-five years old and exhausted from earning every inch of it.

Then I unlocked the front door and heard strangers laughing in my living room. An older couple sat comfortably on my couch watching television while cardboard boxes covered my hardwood floors. My framed family photos had been shoved against the wall like garbage.

Melissa walked out of my kitchen wearing my cardigan and holding my coffee mug. “Oh,” she said casually, freezing when she saw my suitcase. “You came back early.” Behind her, my mother appeared with the confidence of someone who believed she had done nothing wrong.

“Please don’t make this difficult,” my mother said softly. “Your sister needed stability.” I stared at the strangers eating at my dining table, then back at Melissa. “Move out?” I repeated slowly. “From the house with my name on the deed?-