My mother-in-law was standing in the doorway of my own apartment like she had been born there.
“Leave now or I’ll call the police!” Lorraine shouted, tightening the satin robe around her waist. “My son bought this apartment for me!”
For a second, I only stared.
She was in my living room, wearing hot rollers in her hair and holding my grandmother’s mug like she had every right to touch it. My framed photos were gone from the console table. My throw pillows had been replaced with ugly embroidered ones that said Bless This Home, and one of Lorraine’s lace dust covers was hanging from my dining room chandelier like some final, ridiculous insult.