When I came home, my life was in trash bags by the elevator — my clothes, books, and even my grandmother’s locket. Confused, I tried to open the door… but my key no longer worked.
Then my mother-in-law opened it and said six chilling words.
I stepped off the elevator and almost tripped over a trash bag.
“Who on earth would dump their trash outside the elevator?” I muttered in annoyance.
I grabbed the offending bag, intending to move it aside. Then I noticed more bags piled in a small heap just beside the elevator.
I froze. One bag was open, revealing my grandmother’s locket glinting faintly against the familiar purple of my favorite evening gown.
I dropped the bag at my feet and stared at the pile in shock.
My suede heels peeked out from a tear in another bag. The hardcover novel I’d cried through last winter lay open on the floor, like a bird that had tried to escape.
My chest tightened. What were my things doing in trash bags in the hall?
I clutched my keys with trembling fingers and ran to my apartment.
My key scraped the lock but didn’t turn.
I tried again. And again.
A chill spidered up my spine.
I jiggled the knob and then pounded once, twice.
Behind the door: voices. Alan’s laugh and a woman’s giggle that was soft and syrupy.
I pulled out my phone to call him so he could open up for me, but just then, the door swung open.
It wasn’t Alan.
It was Miranda, my mother-in-law, lips pursed in that permanent twist of superiority she reserved just for me.
“Oh. It’s you,” she said, like swatting a gnat.
She pointed toward the trash bags. “Take your things before someone else does. You don’t live here anymore.”
The words slapped me across the face.
I almost dropped my phone.
“What are you talking about? Where’s Alan?” My voice cracked like glass.
“Alan’s busy,” Miranda replied, teeth bared in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
