Dad approached, jaw tight. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Unlock the door.”
“No.”
Lydia marched up the porch steps, grabbed the doorknob, and twisted it hard. It didn’t budge. She yanked on it and turned toward Dad. “She changed the locks.”
Mom gasped dramatically. “You changed your locks on your own family?”
“You tried to break into my home,” I said. “Yes. I changed the locks.”
“Harold, check the back!” Mom stormed.
Dad ran around the house, rattling the back door, the mudroom, and the basement entry. “They’re all locked!” he yelled.
Mom stopped inches from my face. “We have a truck full of furniture, Mara. We’re moving in. It’s family property. We contributed.”
“A thousand dollars,” I said. “Three years ago. A gift, not a loan. It didn’t give you a stake in this home.”
Lydia dragged another box from the truck and threw it onto the ground, spilling toys and framed photos across the dirt.
I stepped back inside the cabin, shut the door, locked it, and immediately dialed the sheriff’s office.
“There are people attempting to enter my home,” I told the dispatcher. “They have a moving truck, and they refuse to leave.”
“We’ll send deputies,” the dispatcher said. “Stay inside.”
Minutes passed. Then, sirens echoed up the slope. Two police cruisers climbed the hill, red and blue lights flashing through the trees.
Deputy Hartman approached the porch. “Good morning. We received a report of trespassing.”
Mom immediately pointed at me. “Our daughter is having an episode. This is a misunderstanding. We’re moving in today.”
“Do you live here? Do you have documentation proving ownership?” Hartman asked.
Dad stepped forward. “We helped her buy the place.”
“That’s not what I asked,” the deputy said. He turned to the door. “Miss, are you inside?”
I unlocked the door and stepped out, handing the folder to Deputy Hartman. “I’m the owner. I have the deed, mortgage, tax documents, and insurance policy all in my name.”