Chelsea walked into my kitchen on a Saturday while I poured water over coffee grounds and said Mackenzie and Delaney were moving in that day, rent-free, until they got on their feet. Brandon stood by the refrigerator and studied the tile. I am Helen. I am sixty-four. Gerald and I bought this three-bedroom house in a quiet Ohio suburb when Brandon was a child and spent thirty years paying it off. He called the backyard our retirement kingdom. Brandon and Chelsea arrived a year ago for six months. They paid no rent, rarely bought food, ran the utilities up, and put subscriptions on my card. I asked where the friends would sleep. Chelsea said they needed my larger room and private bath. I could take the couch. Brandon muttered that it was temporary and would not look at me. Family helps people, she said, pouring my creamer into her travel cup.

I said all right. She thanked me and left for brunch to celebrate a permanent sleepover. Brandon said thanks, Mom, and followed the white SUV down the drive. I called an emergency locksmith and a same-day moving crew. Vernon replaced every exterior lock. Three movers packed only their things: toiletries, shoes, the game console, chargers, coats, perfume, handbags, unopened orders. I followed the inventory and broke nothing. I rented a climate-controlled unit three miles away and paid three months ahead. Vernon gave me two brass keys. I taped a sleeve to the front glass with one storage key, the receipt, the address, and the list. The house went quiet.