They never knocked. That was always the part that unsettled me—the quiet click of a key in the front door, followed by my in-laws appearing in the kitchen, as if the house itself had summoned them. Aarav would whisper, “Be nice. They helped us buy this place,” and I’d bite back whatever I was about to say. Thirty percent of a down payment seemed to translate to thirty percent ownership—to everyone but me.
Yesterday, I came home early and walked straight into a nightmare wrapped in politeness. His mother sat on the couch, my mail sprawled across the coffee table—insurance forms, a medical bill with my name in bold. My journal lay in her lap like a borrowed novel. His father was on speakerphone with our internet provider, impersonating Aarav: “Yes, this is him,” he said, requesting a list of “recent device connections.”
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