The photo was bright and sunny. It showed my mother, my father, and my sisters. They were laughing. They were holding glasses of white wine. Behind them was a view I knew better than my own face: the wide wooden deck, the blue infinity pool, the Pacific Ocean stretching out to the horizon.

They were in my Malibu beach house.

I stared at the screen. I had not given them the keys. I had not told them they could go. They didn’t even ask me. They were vacationing in my home, a home I bought with my own hard work, completely behind my back.

Then I read the caption.

“Finally, peace without the drama.”

I felt sick.

The “drama” was me. They were enjoying my house and my money specifically because I wasn’t there.