When I turned into the driveway that afternoon, my mind was still hazy from a twelve-hour shift. The silver Camry was missing, and Mia’s battered Kia sat crooked as always. The yard was unchanged—thin grass, plastic flamingos, the tilting mailbox—but something in my chest tightened, like stepping into a space where you’re no longer wanted.
I unlocked the front door and stopped short. The hallway reeked of bleach and cheap floral spray. Boxes lined the walls, labeled in thick black marker in Mom’s sharp script: “Kitchen,” “Bathroom,” “Mia’s Books.” My sneakers squealed against the freshly mopped floor as I rushed toward my bedroom.
The door stood wide open. My stomach sank.
Everything had vanished. The posters, the thrifted dresser, the mismatched nightstands I’d pieced together from Craigslist. Even the old twin mattress. The blinds hung bare, sunlight spilling over an empty carpet marked by vacuum lines. In the center of the room sat a single tied trash bag, like a deliberate insult.
