I liked our life. Really, I did.
Our apartment smelled like vanilla and peace. The sun hit the kitchen counter at 4 PM. After work, there was just silence, espresso, and space that felt entirely mine.
Then Daniel walked in with that “I’m about to ruin your day” face.
“My mom needs to stay here for a few days,” he said. Pipe burst, minor flood, just a week — maybe less.
I agreed. What else could I do?
By day two, she’d replaced my framed photos with sepia portraits and potpourri in my underwear drawer. Then she used my luxury face cream without asking.
Still, I said nothing.
Until I came home to find her in my tub, with my candles, and my bath gel — acting like it was her personal spa.
“Emily! You weren’t using it!” she chirped.
I told Daniel. He shrugged. “Don’t women share stuff?”
So, I locked our bedroom door. She got in anyway.
Saturday came. My day. Yoga, lemon water, calm. Until music and heels clacked from downstairs.
I found Linda throwing a full-blown party in my blouse — the new one I hadn’t even worn yet.
“Emily, meet everyone! We started without you!”
One guest asked who I was. Linda said it was her house.
I didn’t argue. I smiled.
“Stay. Make yourselves at home.”
And the next day? Her gentlemen friends had admired Daniel’s cologne, his ties, even his car. Allegedly.
Daniel was horrified.
I was serene.
Linda went home the next afternoon — escorted personally by my husband. I gave her a farewell smile and whispered, “It felt good to let others experience things that aren’t technically theirs.”
That night, I took my bath. My candles. My silence.
And somewhere across town, I imagined Linda staring at beige walls, wondering what had just happened.
Because when someone crosses the line — you don’t argue.
You win.
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