They moved in the following weekend.
By the second week, my house wasn’t mine anymore.
Little did I know that by August, I’d be a servant in my own house.
Leah started with the quilts.
I had five of them—handmade by my grandmother, my mom, and me. Quilts that had stories sewn into every stitch. Quilts that had kept three generations warm.
I came home from the grocery store and they were gone.
“Where are my quilts?” I asked.
Leah was rearranging the living room furniture.
“Oh, those old things, Grace,” she said. “They were falling apart. I took them to a donation center. You should’ve seen the woman’s face. She was so grateful.”
“Those were my grandmother’s quilts.”
“I know, sweetie.” Patronizing. “But sometimes we have to let go of the past to make room for new beginnings. You understand, right?”
I understood she’d just thrown away pieces of my family history like they were trash in my own house.
“Next time, ask me first,” I said.
My voice was steady. Cold.
“Of course,” Leah said.
But her smile said she’d do whatever she wanted.
The next week, she took over the kitchen, reorganized everything, threw out my cast iron skillet—the one I’d been seasoning for forty years—because it looked old and crusty.
She redecorated the living room, moved furniture without asking, took down family photos and replaced them with abstract art I didn’t recognize.
She took over William’s study—the room I’d kept exactly as he left it. His books. His desk. His reading chair where he used to fall asleep with the newspaper on his chest.
I came home one day and it was empty, painted, turned into Leah’s home office.
“Where are William’s things?” My voice cracked. I couldn’t help it.
“In the basement,” Leah said, not even looking up from her laptop. “Grace, that room was just collecting dust. It’s been four years. You need to move forward. Let go of the past and embrace new beginnings.”
New beginnings.
She kept saying that.
Out with the old, in with the new.
“That was my husband’s space,” I said. “And now it’s your office.”
