When they showed up at the gate with a long line of suitcases, my sister went pale as I said,
“Sorry, you’re at the wrong house.”
And that was the moment their nightmare really started.
I had just closed on my beach house.
The keys were still warm in my hand, the ink on the documents barely dry. It wasn’t flashy, but it was mine—white walls, wide windows, the sound of waves rolling in like a promise I’d finally kept to myself. I stood on the terrace, breathing in salt air, thinking for the first time in years that maybe peace was possible.
Then my phone rang.
My sister didn’t even say hello.
“I’ll be there in three hours,” she said briskly. “Twenty-two people. Get the rooms ready, cook everything. We’re staying two weeks.”
I froze.
I reminded her calmly that I had just moved in. That the house wasn’t set up yet. That I hadn’t invited anyone.
She laughed. “Don’t be dramatic. Family is family. You finally have something nice—of course we’re coming.”
Before I could respond, the call ended.
