When I returned, an unfamiliar car was parked outside. The curtains had been moved, and a strong perfume filled the entryway.
Women’s shoes covered the floor.
Matthew was sitting in my armchair.
His face went pale when he saw me.
“Mom,” he said. “You’re early.”
Then I heard Jessica calling from my bedroom.
I walked down the hallway and found her painting her nails on my white sheets. Her clothes filled my closet. Her cosmetics covered my dresser, and my late husband’s cedar chest was buried beneath her suitcase.
She looked at me as if I were trespassing.
“What is this witch doing here?” she snapped. “Get out of my house.”
Matthew said nothing.
That silence hurt more than her words.
“This is my house,” I told her.
She laughed.
“Matthew said we could stay.”
“Did he also say you could take my bedroom?”
“It’s only a room. Stop being dramatic.”
