I used to be close with my sister Holly, but after she married and had kids, we drifted apart. She’s always been a free spirit, chasing experiences over stability—unlike me. I worked for ten years to pay off my modest home and was proud of the independence it gave me.
A few months ago, Holly and her husband Nicholas sold their house to travel the world with their kids. I warned her it wasn’t a great idea, but they didn’t listen. At first, their trip looked glamorous online—then the posts stopped.
One day, I came home to find them living in my house. Holly used the spare key I gave our mom “for emergencies.” She told me they’d be staying “just for a few months.”
I was stunned. They never asked. I demanded they leave, but they refused. Nicholas even tried to intimidate me, saying, “We have nowhere else to go.”
Desperate, I messaged my old friend Alex, who happened to be nearby—dressed as a cop for a prank. I invited him over and we staged a little scene. When Holly and Nicholas saw “Officer Johnson” and heard the words “trespassing” and “charges,” they panicked. Within minutes, they packed up and left.
Afterward, Alex and I sat in the quiet. I felt a bit guilty—they’re family, after all—but I knew I’d done the right thing. My home, my rules.
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