I stood in the doorway, holding my suitcase, unable to believe what I was seeing.
Then I looked toward the fireplace.
My husband’s photographs were gone.
The mantelpiece, which had displayed our wedding picture and family portraits for years, was almost empty.
My heart sank.
I searched the nearby drawers.
There they were.
Our wedding photograph.
A picture of Robert holding baby Emily.
Our twentieth-anniversary portrait.
Someone had shoved them into a drawer to make space for decorations.
That hurt more than the messy house.
Those photographs were reminders of a man I’d loved for decades.
And someone had moved them as though they were meaningless clutter.
I took out my phone and called Emily.
She answered cheerfully.
“Hi, Mom! How was your trip?”
“Emily, why are there people sleeping in my living room?”
She laughed.
“Oh, they’re David’s family.”
I stared toward the strangers.
“How many people did you invite?”
“Mom, it’s just a family reunion.”
“Fifteen people are staying here!”
“They needed somewhere comfortable. Your house was empty, so we thought it made sense.”
I couldn’t believe her explanation.
“You gave them permission to use my home without asking?”
She sighed.
“Please don’t overreact. They’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Emily, you had no right to make that decision.”
“Mom, they’re family. Don’t embarrass me.”
Before I could respond, she ended the call.
I stood there staring at my phone.
For years, I’d done everything I could to support my daughter.
I’d helped her through difficult times.
Welcomed David into our family.
And tried to maintain a good relationship with his relatives.
But apparently, my generosity had convinced Emily that she could make decisions about my property without involving me.
Just then, someone entered the kitchen.
Linda.
David’s mother.
She wore a comfortable robe and was holding one of my favorite coffee mugs.
“Oh, Margaret!” she exclaimed. “You’re back already!”
I looked at her.
“I returned exactly when I said I would.”
She smiled.
“Well, everyone’s still sleeping. Could you keep your voice down?”
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard her.
She was asking me to be quiet.
In my own house.
“Linda, why are all these people here?”
She waved her hand.
“Oh, don’t worry. We’re having a wonderful family gathering. Your house has been perfect.”
“Did anyone tell you I’d given permission?”
Linda hesitated.
“Emily said it would be fine.”
“But did she say she’d actually asked me?”
Her smile tightened.
“Margaret, surely we don’t need to argue about this.”
I looked around the kitchen.
Dirty dishes filled the sink.
Food containers covered the counters.
Someone had used nearly everything in the refrigerator.
Furniture had been moved to accommodate extra mattresses.
And Linda was behaving as though I were an inconvenient visitor.
“Linda, this is my home.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Then I’d appreciate it if you treated it that way.”
She gave a small laugh.
“There’s no need to be so sensitive. We’re practically family.”
I took a slow breath.
Arguing wasn’t going to improve the situation.
Then I remembered something my sister had given me shortly before I left Florida.
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