My Family Tried to Move Into My Mountain House Without Asking

I was halfway down the mountain road when Mrs. Rowan called, and the way her voice sounded before she even finished her first sentence told me everything I needed to know about what I was driving back to.

“Mara, honey,” she said, speaking in that careful, lowered register people use when they are delivering news they did not choose. “There’s a moving truck in your driveway. Your parents are here. And your sister. And the kids.”