I caught my dad on my security camera planning to move my brother into my house while I was on a trip, and when my mom said, “Once everything is here, she will not make a scene. She will just accept it,” I set a trap for them.

I clicked again.

“March eighth. Here’s the U-Haul arriving at my driveway.”

The video showed my father behind the wheel, Kyle in the passenger seat, and the truck pulling up to my house.

“Over the next six hours, you moved your belongings into my home. Not just the basement, as Mom originally planned, but my bedroom. Because, and I quote—”

I played the clip of Kyle speaking to his friend.

“She’s got like three bedrooms. She doesn’t need the big one. Besides, it’s not like she’s going to say anything. Myra’s like pathologically non-confrontational.”

Someone gasped.

Mrs. Patterson, one of my mother’s oldest friends, covered her mouth with one hand.

“You took my room, Kyle. You moved my bed. You told Brittany to clear out my closet. All while I was thousands of miles away closing a 2.3-million-dollar contract.”

I let the number sit.