The next photo was of my father. He was standing by the grill—my stainless-steel built-in grill that I had never even used yet. He was flipping burgers. He looked like the king of the castle. He was wearing a hat that said RELAX MODE.

I swiped again.

My sister Jessica was in my bedroom, my primary suite. She was wearing my silk robe, the one with my initials, “AM,” embroidered on the pocket. She was posing in the mirror, doing a duck face for the camera. The caption under that one read:

“Living the dream. #vacationmode #Malibu.”

I felt a physical blow to my chest. It wasn’t just that they were there. It was the entitlement. They were using my things, my personal private things, as props for their social media performance.

They were trying to look rich. They were trying to look successful. They were using my hard work to paint a picture of a life they didn’t earn.

I looked at the comments. This was the part that truly made my stomach turn.

My Aunt Linda had commented: