For a second I honestly thought I had entered the wrong house.
Arthur’s floors—the ones he had sanded by hand, stained warm honey brown, and fussed over like they were fine furniture—had disappeared beneath gray laminate.
Cheap gray laminate.
Greg looked at me. “Everything okay, Mrs. Russell?”
“Go ahead to the basement,” I said. “Furnace is on the left.”
I walked into the kitchen.
The old oak cabinets had been painted matte black. The brass hardware had been replaced with thin modern handles that looked like they came in a bulk package.
I opened one cabinet door and ran my thumb over a streak where black paint had dried unevenly near the hinge.
I was not against change, but they had made permanent changes to my property without asking.
Then I went upstairs.
In the master bathroom, a sledgehammer leaned against the wall.
Several tiles around the shower had already been smashed out. Broken pieces sat in a contractor bucket beside exposed backing board.
Jenna had been right.
They had already started.
I stood there looking at the half-demolished wall and felt something inside me become very still.
I did not cry over Arthur’s floors.
I did not call David screaming.
I did not confront Sarah in the driveway.
When Greg finished, I locked the house behind us, drove to a hardware store, bought a plain spiral notebook, and began writing down what restoration would cost.
That evening, Sarah called.
“You came into this house while we weren’t here!”
“I gave written notice.”
“You used your key.”
“Yes. I’m the owner, and I entered with notice to service the furnace.”
David’s voice joined the call. “You saw the floors.”
“I did.”
There was a pause.
“I also saw the kitchen cabinets and the bathroom you’ve started demolishing.”
Sarah scoffed. “We improved the place. It looked like a museum. We’re updating it.”
“Without permission.”
“We’re building equity, Caitlyn. You should be thanking us.”
“Building equity for whom?”
Neither of them answered.