I set down my tea, walked to the front door, and opened it from the inside. The five of them stood on my porch in the cold, suitcases in hand, Danika’s confident smile completely gone. “Margery,” she started, “there’s clearly a problem with the locks.” I stepped out onto the porch, pulled the door shut behind me, and stood between them and the house I had paid for with thirty-one years of teaching and my late husband’s memory. “There’s no problem with the locks,” I said. “They’re working exactly as I intended.”

Danika’s mother looked confused. Her sister Bianca glanced at the neat stack of Danika’s belongings on the side porch and slowly set her suitcase down. “You told me, in my own kitchen, to move out of my own bedroom so your mother could have it,” I said to Danika, my voice calm and steady. “You discussed it, decided it, and presented it to me, as if I were a tenant behind on rent. So I’ve had eight months to think, and today I’m giving you my answer.” I turned to my son, who couldn’t meet my eyes. “Colton, you can come inside, alone, and we can talk like family. But no one is moving into this house today. And after eight months of silence, you’re going to have to decide, right now, on this porch, whose home this actually is.”