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.
Then someone else appeared behind her, a woman with tousled hair wearing the hoodie I’d given Alan for Christmas.
Lesley. She blinked like she hadn’t expected to be seen.
They’d introduced her to me months ago as Alan’s childhood friend.
“We dated in school, but we were practically siblings,” they’d laughed. “There’s nothing between us anymore.”
Right.
“You weren’t supposed to be home so early,” she said, a complaint more than an explanation.
Miranda stepped forward, proud as a queen.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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