The relatives poured in. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and a small army of loud children.
They walked into a house that smelled not of roasting turkey and cinnamon, but of stale air and sheer panic.
Sarah had scrambled without my credit card. Leo had begged a friend for a small loan just to order food.
As the guests gathered in the living room, expecting a massive home-cooked feast, a delivery driver arrived with 10 boxes of overpriced, lukewarm pizza.
The relatives stood in the kitchen staring at the cardboard boxes in disbelief.
Aunt Patricia, a sharpeyed woman who never missed a detail, picked up a slice of pepperoni. She looked around the kitchen, noting the lack of decorations, the empty oven, and the sheer panic vibrating off Leo.
Then she walked into the living room and spent a long moment looking at the mantle.
She turned back to Sarah, her voice cutting through the awkward chatter of the room.
“Sarah, you’ve been bragging for months about this beautiful house you and Leo bought.”
Sarah swallowed hard.
“Yes. Well, it’s a lot of work.”
“If this is your house,” Patricia interrupted, pointing a manicured finger at the wall, “why are Isabella’s family photos hanging in every room? Why is her name on the mail on the counter? And why did your mother just tell me you’re making them sleep on an air mattress in the basement?”
Sarah opened her mouth, but no words came out.
The entire room went dead silent.
The truth was out, ugly and undeniable in the middle of the living room.
Sarah wasn’t a successful homeowner hosting a lavish holiday. She was a freeloader who had driven the actual homeowner out of the house.
My phone buzzed on the counter.