Nobody knocked.
Briana walked right in with a key—a key I didn’t know she had—and called out, “Ms. Moore, you up? We’re here.”
Like it was a surprise party I should thank her for.
I tightened my robe and stepped into the living room. Twelve people. Twelve strangers. Sand on my floors, bags on my furniture, voices everywhere.
“Good morning,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I didn’t realize y’all were arriving this early.”
Joyce looked me up and down with that postal-worker authority and church-lady confidence. “Early bird gets the worm, honey. Now where’s the master bedroom? My sciatica’s acting up and I need that soaking tub Briana told me about.”
She didn’t wait. She rolled her suitcase down my hallway toward my bedroom.
“Actually,” I started, “that’s my—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Briana chirped, appearing at my elbow. “Terry said you already moved upstairs. The guest room has an ocean view too.”
The guest room. In my house.
Darnell sprawled across my cream linen sectional with his shoes still on, grinding beach sand into my cushions. “Yo, what’s the Wi-Fi password?” he asked without looking up.
From down the hall, Kesha called, “We’re going to need more towels. One set per bathroom isn’t going to cut it with twelve people.”
I stood in my foyer—the same foyer I’d stood in forty-eight hours earlier, thinking this would be my sanctuary—and watched my home get rearranged like it was a rental property. Strangers moved my things, opened my cabinets, claimed my rooms.
“Coffee?” I tried, desperate to establish some normalcy. “I just made a pot.”
“Oh, we brought our own,” Kesha said as she walked into my kitchen and started opening cabinets like she paid for them. “And no offense, Ms. Moore, but your kitchen organization is all wrong. Spices shouldn’t be alphabetical. They should be by cuisine.”
She started pulling out my spice jars—jars I had arranged myself on Tuesday with Geneva’s help—and reordering them while I watched, speechless.
By 9:30, Geneva called. “Girl, how’s paradise?”
I didn’t sob. I couldn’t. I just let quiet tears slide down my face.
“They’re here,” I whispered. “All of them. Twelve people. Terry’s not even here.”
Geneva got quiet for three seconds. Then, “Pack your bag. I’m coming.”
“No,” I said, wiping my face. “I’m not running from my own house.”
“Then you want me to come handle this?”
“Not yet. I need proof. I need to see how far this goes.”
“Baby,” Geneva said, voice low, “this is exploitation.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Three hundred? Three-fifty.”
I heard myself say, “I’ll see what I can do,” and I hated that I said it. But when twelve people act like something is normal, your brain starts trying to survive by cooperating.
I went to Publix and stood in the organic aisle staring at almond milk like it was a moral test. That’s where Geneva found me.
“Alyssa Moore, is that you?” she said, looking in my cart. “Who drinks rice milk?”
I told her. She didn’t get loud. She got still.
“Let me understand,” she said quietly. “Twelve people invaded your house, took your bedroom, and now they sent you to spend $300 on groceries.”
“They’re family,” I said weakly.
“Family asks,” Geneva said. “Family respects. This is exploitation dressed up like a vacation.”
I bought essentials—$175 worth, not $350—skipped the fancy crackers, came back, and Kesha met me at the door.
“Where’s the gluten-free bread?” she demanded.
“No,” I said.
She blinked. “What?”
“I’m not going to another store. If you need something specific, you can go get it.”
Her mouth fell open like she’d never heard the word “no” spoken to her in my kitchen.
I went upstairs and found my laptop open on my bed. I always closed it. Always. Gmail was pulled up—my Gmail—and in the search bar were words nobody should’ve typed but me: “Alyssa Moore beach house.”
I checked the folder list and saw one I didn’t create: “Beach House planning.”
Inside were forwarded emails between Terry and Briana.
March 15: “She’s definitely buying the beach house. Six bedrooms. This could solve everything. We stay there rent-free all summer.”
March 22: Briana: “But what if she says no?”
Terry: “She won’t. She’s too guilty. She worked through my whole childhood. She owes me this. Plus once we’re there, she won’t kick us out. Too worried about what church folks would say.”
April 3: Briana: “Your mama is 62. How much longer can she really handle property that big? Maybe we just need to be patient. Nature will take its course and then the house is legally yours anyway.”
Nature will take its course.
