She opened her mouth, closed it, and stormed inside.

Doors slammed.

My book was particularly good that night.

Next on the list was the basement laundry room.

Since they’d moved in, Brooke had treated my high-end washer and dryer like her personal property. I hadn’t minded back when we were close. But respect is the currency I deal in now, and she was bankrupt.

She’d leave her wet clothes in the drum for days or ask me to “just pop her stuff in the dryer” since I was already down there.

Wednesday morning, I went down. Brooke’s blouses and Julian’s gym clothes were strewn across the folding table. I ignored the mess.

Instead, I took a heavy-duty plug lock out of my toolbox. I’d picked it up at the hardware store the day before.

In two minutes, the power cord was locked. No one was using that machine without the key currently sitting in my pocket.

Thursday night, I heard frantic footsteps on the basement stairs. Then Brooke calling for Julian.

I walked out into the hallway as Julian stood staring at the machine.

“Mom, did you lock the washer? Brooke has a big meeting tomorrow and needs her suit.”

I leaned against the banister.

“I did. I noticed the machine was making a weird noise from overuse. Since we’re separate households now, you should probably look into getting your own set.”

“But where are we supposed to do laundry tonight?” Julian asked, looking desperate.

“There’s a 24-hour laundromat three blocks away,” I suggested.

Brooke stepped out from behind him, her face red with rage.

“You’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to kick us out.”

I looked her dead in the eye.

“No, Brooke. I’m just taking care of my own property. If you love the luxury of independence, you have to pay for it.”

Saturday brought a lesson in self-sufficiency.

It had been an unwritten rule that I did the big grocery run for everyone. I’d stock the extra fridge in the basement with steaks, fresh produce, and Brooke’s favorite sparkling water. They just helped themselves whenever they were hungry.

That morning, I went to the store as usual, but my cart stayed light.

I bought exactly what I needed for myself, a piece of salmon, some asparagus, fruit, and a nice bottle of wine. When I got home, I emptied the basement fridge, scrubbed it down, and unplugged it, leaving the door propped open to air out.

That evening, I heard Brooke head downstairs, likely for a bottle of wine.

A moment later, she was at my door. She didn’t even knock. She just tried to turn the handle.

But I’d started locking my door.

I opened it slowly.

“Is there a problem?”

“The basement fridge is empty and turned off,” she blurted out. “Where’s the food for the weekend?”

“I only shopped for myself today,” I said. “Since you’re handling your own utilities, I thought it was only fair you handle your own groceries, too.”

Brooke gasped.

“You could have at least told us. We have nothing in the house and the store’s closing in 20 minutes.”

“I’m not your housekeeper, Brooke. A quick look in your own fridge would have told you that you were low.”

I paused.

“You’re adults. I’m sure DoorDash is still delivering.”

I closed the door gently but firmly.

It’s amazing how much peace you find when you stop carrying people who don’t appreciate the ride.

Sunday was traditionally my day in the kitchen. For years, Julian expected a full roast or a big Italian spread. Often, Brooke would invite her parents or friends over without even asking me. They’d sit at my table and let me serve them like a waitress.