My Parents Sold Their Paid-Off House To Rescue My Sister, Then Showed Up At My Lake House With A Moving Truck

I stood up and walked to the railing of the loft, looking down through the massive front windows.

My stomach dropped.

It wasn’t a delivery van.

Down on my driveway, blocking the exit, was a 26-foot U-Haul moving truck. It was massive, idling loudly, its exhaust pumping white smoke into the cold rain.

Behind it was a beige sedan. I recognized it instantly.

A Buick LeSabre.

My father’s car.

I stood frozen at the railing for a solid ten seconds, my brain refusing to process the visual information.

Why are they here?

I hadn’t invited them. I hadn’t even spoken to them in three weeks.