At first I thought he was mistaken.
Then he sent photos.
My driveway was filled with toys.
My porch had plastic tricycles lined up like territory markers.
The window of my master bedroom, once framed by clean white curtains, now displayed animal decals pressed against the glass.
I remember staring at those images in my corporate apartment in Copenhagen, my coffee going cold in my hand while my heart pounded not with rage at first but with confusion, because surely there had been some miscommunication, some conversation I had missed, some moment where my autonomy had been consulted.
I called my mother immediately.
“Oh sweetheart,” she said in that syrupy tone she used when she was already rewriting history, “don’t make this a thing. Marissa needed somewhere stable, and you weren’t even there.”
I wasn’t even there.
As if absence erased ownership.
As if physical distance nullified legal boundaries.
