Karen’s smile disappeared when she saw the new deadbolt already in his hand.

She looked at me.

Then at the locksmith.

Then laughed.

Short.

Confident.

Like people laugh when reality is temporarily inconvenient.

“What is this?”

I closed the front door behind me.

The cabin smelled wrong.

Not wood smoke and cedar.

Grease.

Cheap perfume.

Someone had burned a candle that smelled like artificial vanilla.

A pizza box sat open on the dining table.

My husband’s old reading blanket was folded over the couch.

Not folded.

Used.

That detail bothered me more than the wine.

Karen crossed her arms.

“You’re changing locks?”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

She blinked.

“But we’re staying here.”

I looked around.

“No.”

Her face hardened.

Emily had the same expression.

That moment when charm doesn’t work and they become offended reality still exists.

Karen laughed again.

“Margaret, don’t be ridiculous.”

I looked at the locksmith.

He waited.

Professional.

Quiet.

Karen raised her voice.

“We have permission.”

I looked at her.

“From who?”

She opened her mouth.

Paused.

Then—

“Emily.”

“Emily does not own this cabin.”

Karen rolled her eyes.

“Oh come on.”

She spread her arms.

“This is family.”

I smiled faintly.

That word again.

Family.

Funny how family always seemed to mean access.

Not responsibility.

Not respect.

Access.

I stepped farther inside.

Her relatives had finally stopped pretending not to listen.

One man quietly set down his beer.

A woman looked away.

Interesting.

There is always one moment when spectators realize they accidentally attended the wrong side of a story.

Karen straightened.

“You can’t throw us out.”

May you like

“Actually, I can.”