My mom had been gone less than a year when my dad told me my aunt was moving in.
Not “staying for a bit.” Not “helping us adjust.”
Moving in.
And not as family.
As something else.
I was nineteen. Old enough to hear the words. Young enough to feel my whole house tilt sideways.
He said it like it was weather. Like it was unavoidable.
Then he took a sip of coffee, calm as if he’d just told me we were repainting the kitchen.
What I didn’t understand then was this:
Some people don’t move into your home.
They move into the empty space your grief left behind… and start redecorating it with control.
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