“If you have any pride left, pack your things and leave right now. This apartment belongs to my son and me now.”

That was the first thing I heard when I opened the door to my apartment in Oakwood after nearly two months away. I had been in Pine Valley taking care of my father after his major heart surgery, and by the time I got home, I was exhausted, wrinkled from the drive, and dragging two heavy suitcases behind me.

All I wanted was a hot shower, coffee, and my own bed.

Instead, I stepped into a home I barely recognized.

My white sheets were gone, replaced by an ugly floral bedspread. My indoor plants had disappeared from the windowsill. My art was missing from the walls. In its place hung a giant photo of my husband, Thomas, smiling with his mother.

The apartment smelled of cheap incense, reheated food, and heavy perfume.

Standing in the middle of my living room was my mother-in-law, Mrs. Higgins, wearing the pink robe I had bought during a trip to Blue Harbor. In her hand was my favorite blue ceramic mug—the one my mother gave me when I signed the deed to this apartment.

“Mrs. Higgins,” I said carefully, “what are you doing in my home?”

She smiled like I was the intruder.

“I’m living where I belong, dear. Thomas finally realized his mother matters more than a selfish wife who never makes time for  family.”

Down the hallway, I saw boxes, plastic bags, shoes, prescription bottles, blankets, and religious statues scattered everywhere. My books had been shoved onto the floor like garbage.

“This apartment is legally mine,” I said. “You need to leave.”

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