My ex-in-laws took my house—now they sorely regret it.

I didn’t sleep after that. I sat on the edge of my bed, clutching my phone, listening to their voices drift through the walls.

By morning, I was ready to figure out exactly how they’d gotten in. The front door’s deadbolt looked untouched. The digital keypad was dead, its screen cracked. Then I spotted it—the sliding door to my balcony was ajar.

The balcony of my unit sat just a few feet from the emergency stairwell landing. All it would take was a few bold steps along the narrow concrete ledge—eighteen floors up—to climb in. One wrong move, and they’d have been street art. The thought should’ve made me feel lucky they hadn’t fallen. Instead, my skin prickled. People that desperate weren’t going to be scared off easily.

When I came back inside, I found Mrs. Landry sprawled across my bed in a silk robe I’d bought just last week, her feet on my pillows. Mr. Landry was sitting beside her in nothing but boxer shorts, working at a stubborn toenail.

From the guest room came muffled noises that made my skin crawl. I didn’t knock. I didn’t want to know.

In the smallest bedroom, Tyler was spreading fresh sheets, like we’d just agreed to move in together again. He looked up and smiled like nothing was wrong. “Come on in. It’s been a while since we slept together.”

I backed out so fast I nearly tripped.

The air in the condo felt thick, sour. I left without another word, spent the night in a 24-hour coffee shop two blocks away, watching the same silent newscast loop until sunrise.

When I came back the next day, I planned to have one last, civilized conversation. Tell them to leave, or I’d call the cops.

The elevator doors slid open, and my stomach dropped.

My sofa, coffee table, and bookshelf were in the hallway. In my living room, a crew of men in dust masks was swinging hammers at my walls. Light fixtures lay shattered on the floor. Even the hardwood planks were being pried up and stacked like firewood.

“What the hell are you doing?!” My voice cracked halfway through.

“Making the space more practical,” Adam said from the kitchen, holding one of my wine bottles—nearly empty. “A big living room’s a waste. The baby needs its own room.”

I shoved past him to the wine rack. Ten bottles gone. Only two left, both vintage reds I’d bought to share with my mom.

“That’s for my family,” I snapped. “Do you have any idea what those cost?”

Mrs. Landry strolled out from the kitchen, wearing my mother’s birthday necklace and the matching gold bracelets. “Don’t be so territorial. What’s yours is ours. We’ve given the workers a taste too—”

Jessica emerged in my mink coat, grinning. “We believe in sharing the good stuff.” She plucked the last two bottles from the rack and handed them to one of the men tearing down my walls. “For your trouble.”

I caught her wrist before she could let go. “You don’t give away my property.”

Mrs. Landry slid between us and slapped me hard across the face. The room tilted for a second, my cheek burning. “Watch yourself,” she said. “You’ll stress Jess and hurt the baby. The workers offered to knock a couple hundred off the bill if we gave them something nice. You should be thanking us for saving you money.”

I stared at her, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Saving me money? You’re demolishing my home. And I’m supposed to pay for it?”

Mrs. Landry folded her arms. “Who else would? Your ex’s savings are for a new car, Adam’s got a kid on the way, and we’re retired. You’ve got lottery money and no responsibilities. It’s time you learned what family means.”

That word—family—made something in me twist.

Behind her, a man in overalls was lugging two large boxes toward the door. I recognized the tape on them instantly. My dad’s books.