I drove to the lake after my shift, ran on four hours of sleep. Everything looked normal until I opened the cabinet above the washer, where I found a spare key labeled in my mother’s handwriting. Then I found the ledger on the kitchen table, with names, dates, and small payments from relatives who had rented my house for months. Someone had been charging them. My father’s initials sat at the bottom of every page.

I photographed every page, then called my attorney, Ms. Okonkwo, who listened and said four words. “Do not touch anything.” By Thursday night, a locksmith had changed every lock, a technician had replaced the Wi-Fi, and Ms. Okonkwo had mailed a formal trespass notice to every adult in the chat. At seven on Friday morning, my phone rang, and my father’s voice shook with rage.