At first, I thought the locksmith had to be a bluff. No rational person brings a stranger to his daughter’s house and tries to change the locks while she’s still inside. But my family had crossed the line between entitlement and delusion so many times, I should have expected it.
From the upstairs camera feed, I watched my father standing on the porch with the locksmith—a middle-aged man in a navy work shirt who looked deeply uncomfortable—while Madeline leaned against a column, scrolling through her phone like she was waiting for valet service.
I called my father immediately. He answered on the first ring.
“Tell that man to leave,” I said.
Richard looked up toward the camera under the eave, as if he could stare straight through it. “You’re being ridiculous, Claire.”
“No. You’re trespassing.”
“It’s a family asset,” he snapped.
That made me laugh. “A family asset? I bought this house with my own salary. My name is the only one on the deed.”
My mother stepped into frame, her expression tight with familiar moral offense. “Claire, don’t escalate this. Your father is trying to solve a problem.”
“For Madeline.”
“For family,” Sandra corrected.
Madeline rolled her eyes. “Can we not make this dramatic? Dad said he’d reimburse you over time.”
I tightened my grip on the phone. “With what money?”
That silenced her.
Because everyone standing on that porch knew there was no reimbursement coming. My father had already burned close to a million dollars on her first house, and the only reason they were here now was because they had run out of softer ways to enable her.
The locksmith shifted. “Sir,” he said, audible through the camera mic, “if this isn’t your property, I can’t touch it.”
Good man.
