Six months went by like this. Then Dad’s health took a nosedive. I started coming over every day after work to take care of him because Mom and Emma couldn’t be bothered with “the gross stuff.” Eventually, at his request, I moved back into my old room.

Three months later, Dad died. I was with him at the end, holding his hand. Mom and Emma had gone out to buy funeral outfits.

The day after the funeral, I came back from the cemetery to find all my belongings in trash bags on the front lawn. The locks had been changed.

“Go away, Sheila!” Mom called from inside. “This house belongs to us now. You don’t live here anymore.”

I didn’t make a scene. I loaded my stuff into my car and drove to a friend’s place. They’re about to get a very unpleasant surprise, I thought.