I arrived at ten minutes to three. Wesley had rented a small step-and-repeat banner with his logo on it, and a dozen of his followers stood on my lawn holding phones, filming everything. My mother, Diane, was passing out cheap champagne in plastic flutes. My father, Robert, stood by the door he no longer had a key to, because the locksmith had changed every lock at nine that morning while the family was out buying decorations.

Wesley spotted me and his face flickered between confusion and forced cheer. “Paige! You made it! Surprise, right?” He gestured at the banner. “Welcome to the new studio.” I smiled and walked to the center of the lawn, where all those phones were still recording. “Actually,” I said, loud enough for every camera to catch it, “I have the surprise.” I held up the deed. “This house is mine. Only mine. No one on this lawn has any legal claim to a single room in it.” A murmur rippled through the crowd. Diane’s smile collapsed. Robert lunged for the door handle and found it would not turn.

Then I played my card. I had the security footage queued on my tablet, and I turned the screen toward the followers filming: my mother’s voice, crisp and clear, saying they would knock down my wall and I would just accept it, that I was passive, that I would do whatever they said. The audience Wesley had invited to witness his triumph watched my family plot to steal a home instead. Phones swiveled. Someone gasped. Wesley’s carefully built brand curdled in real time as the comments began flooding his own live stream.

I did not scream. I did not have to. I simply handed my attorney’s card to Wesley, told my parents the police report for attempted unlawful entry was already filed, and asked all of them to step off my property. They left with the crowd, the banner, and the plastic champagne, while I walked inside my quiet house, locked my new locks, and finally watered my plants in peace.