Thirteen years had passed since my mother had looked at nineteen-year-old me and explained why I was suddenly the easiest person in our family to remove.
Now she was standing outside the home I had built for myself.
And apparently, she had brought everyone.
My twin sister, Lauren, stood beside her.
Lauren’s husband, Derek Palmer, was already walking along the fence, examining the property.
Their three children were wandering around the driveway.
One of the boys had pulled a basketball from the truck.
Their youngest daughter was hugging a pillow.
This was not a visit.
Nobody traveled with mattresses for a conversation.
The intercom buzzed again.
“Emma?”
I didn’t answer.
My mother pressed the button a third time.
“Emma, we know you’re home.”
Of course they did.
My SUV was parked beneath the covered garage.
Eventually, I touched the microphone.
“What are you doing here?”
Mom’s expression changed immediately.
