I did not raise my voice on the phone. I told my mother, calmly, that no one would be moving into my house, and I hung up before she could laugh again. Then I did what a housing compliance officer does for a living. I opened my safe, photographed the deed, the title insurance, and my fourteen years of mortgage statements, and I called the county sheriff’s office to ask exactly what documentation I needed to remove unauthorized occupants from a property titled solely in my name. The deputy on the line was patient. By the time I hung up, I had a plan and a folder.

I drove to Birchwood Drive the next morning, and my stomach still dropped when I turned onto my street. A rented U-Haul sat in my driveway with its ramp down, and Braxton was carrying a crib box through my open garage as though the house had always been waiting for him. Delia stood on my crooked brick path, one hand on her belly, directing him toward my front door. My mother’s car was parked at the curb. They had not just planned this. They had already begun. I parked, stepped out, and held up my phone so all of them could see the screen.