The footsteps upstairs were unhurried, the way people move in a place they believe they own. My father in my bedroom, leaning against my dresser as if he’d paid for it; my mother by the window, already rehearsing the version of this story where I was ungrateful; Kyle stretched out on my bed like it was a couch at home. They had disabled the cameras, used a hidden spare key I hadn’t known they still had, emptied the fridge, and left a note that dressed a threat in the language of family morality. When I called it what it was—trespassing—they laughed, then escalated. “This is family property in spirit,” my father said, as if spirit signed deeds. My mother called me selfish with the precision of someone who knew exactly where the old wound lived. I pressed the alarm trigger on my phone. Outside, a calm recorded voice announced unauthorized occupants. My father told me to turn it off. I told him I couldn’t. Tires crunched on gravel. When the sheriff called up the stairs, my family came down together, not contrite, just corner… Continues…