But instead of peace, I saw them. My parents, parked in my driveway like they owned it. Dad’s silver truck half on the grass, Mom’s minivan blocking the driveway, the live, laugh, love bumper sticker glowing like a taunt.

Every muscle locked. For a moment, I genuinely considered reversing out of the neighborhood and pretending none of this existed.

But I didn’t run. I stepped out.

Mom’s head snapped toward me like a hawk noticing prey.

“Oh, Teresa,” she said too brightly. “There you are. We were just stopping by.”

Dad nodded with that authoritative disappointment he’d mastered.

Stopping by. Right.

My heart thudded against my ribs. “So, why are you standing at my front door?”

Mom waved her hand like it was silly. “Your father thought the key might still work. It didn’t, though. Must be a new lock.”

There it was. The casual entitlement, the assumption of access, the complete disregard for boundaries. But the old me, the Teresa who used to shrink under their disappointment, was gone.

I took a breath and said the three words I never believed I could say.

“You need to leave.”

Mom blinked. Dad stiffened.

“You heard me,” I continued quietly. “You don’t have a key. You weren’t invited. You need to leave.”

The silence that followed was thick, electric, dangerous.

Mom’s phone buzzed. She glanced down, frowned, then looked at me with something dark behind her eyes.

“We’ll come back when you’re calmer,” she said.

And just like that, they walked off.

But I knew them. This wasn’t over, not even close.

Sunday was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that sits on your skin like static, making you flinch at every distant car door or barking dog. I grilled a couple burgers, tried watching a game, even attempted a nap, but the tension never let up.

Because I knew my parents. Silence wasn’t peace. Silence was strategy.

By Monday morning, I gave up pretending everything was normal. Before leaving for work, I installed a motion sensor camera above the garage, another angle to cover the driveway, just in case. I already had the doorbell cam, but now my house watched every inch of its own exterior.

I wasn’t taking chances.

That night, I stepped into a hot shower, letting the steam finally melt the stress away. For the first time in days, my muscles relaxed.

Then my phone buzzed on the counter. Once, twice. Motion alerts.

My heart slammed back into panic mode. I wrapped a towel around myself, grabbed the phone with shaking hands, and opened the live feed.

And there they were. My parents, again. Parked in my driveway like it was a family reunion I forgot to RSVP to.

Mom stepped out first, holding what looked suspiciously like a casserole dish. Dad followed with a manila envelope tucked under his arm. I stared at my screen, towel dripping, hair plastered to my shoulders.

Mom lifted the casserole like it was a peace offering to a kingdom she wanted back.

Dad walked to my front door, pulled something out of his pocket, the same old apartment key he tried last time. He tried it again. It still didn’t work.

“Shocker,” I muttered at the phone, water dripping down my chin.

Through the audio feed, I heard Mom huff.

“Well, if she won’t open up,” she said, “maybe someone else will.”

Dad nodded and took out his phone.

A few minutes later, a plain white van pulled into the driveway. No logos, just locksmith vibes. My jaw dropped.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. They actually called a locksmith.”

I had never gotten dressed so fast in my life. I yanked on jeans and a shirt, didn’t bother with matching socks, grabbed my keys, and flew out the door like a woman possessed.

I drove home like I was starring in Fast and Furious 12: Boundary Enforcement.

When I pulled up, the locksmith was already out of his van, clipboard in hand, walking toward my parents. Mom was using her fake sweet voice, the one that fooled strangers but never fooled me.

“We just lost access to our home,” she said, syrupy as honey.

The locksmith didn’t look convinced. Dad handed him the envelope, probably something printed in a rush to prove they lived there.

I stepped out of my car, slamming the door hard enough to make all three of them turn.

“Hey,” I called, walking toward them.

Mom’s smile evaporated. Dad blinked like he couldn’t believe I had the audacity to show up to my own home.

I stopped at the base of the driveway.

“Funny seeing you here,” I said flatly.

The locksmith looked between us. “Uh, are you the homeowner?”

“Yes,” I said. “I am, and I have ID and the title inside if you’d like to see it.”

Dad cleared his throat. “Teresa, sweetheart, we were just trying to…”

“Force your way into my house again?” I cut in.

Mom scoffed. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. It’s not like we broke anything.”

Not yet, I thought, but I kept my voice calm.

“Sir,” I told the locksmith, “they don’t live here. They’ve never lived here. They don’t pay the mortgage. They weren’t invited. And I have security footage of them trying this last week.”

The locksmith slowly lowered his clipboard.

“Yeah,” he said to my parents, “I’m not getting involved in this. I can’t open a door for people who aren’t on the deed. That’s extremely illegal.”