I shut the door behind her, and just like that, for the first time in years, my house was my own again.
At first, the silence felt wrong. Not in a bad way, just unnatural. I had gotten so used to Lisa’s constant presence, the noise, the mess, the sheer weight of her expectation lingering in the air.
But now?
Nothing.
No TV blaring at full volume. No passive-aggressive sighs. No leftover food boxes cluttering the counter.
Just me.
My space.
My peace.
I took a deep breath.
It was over.
Or so I thought.
The first sign of trouble came that evening. My phone buzzed with a message from my aunt, Lisa’s mother.
Aunt Marie texted, “Emily, what have you done to Lisa? She just showed up here in tears.”
I rolled my eyes.
Of course she went crying to her mom.
I debated ignoring it, but then I figured I might as well get ahead of whatever sob story Lisa was spinning.
I replied, “I told her to move out. She had plenty of notice. You know that.”
Aunt Marie responded, “You put her out on the street like a heartless stranger.”
I texted, “She’s at your house, isn’t she? Sounds like she’s not on the street after all.”
I saw the typing bubble pop up, then disappear, then pop up again.
Aunt Marie responded, “She’s family, Emily. You don’t turn your back on family.”
I texted, “Funny. I don’t remember Lisa worrying about family when she was laughing about how stupid I was for helping her.”
She left me on read.
I figured that was the end of it.
But, oh no.