My mother, Linda, stopped whispering dramatic little accusations to herself.
And then my brother, Owen, finally looked up from his phone.
“You really did call the police,” he said, as if I were the one who had committed the crime.
I looked at him as he sat on my couch, surrounded by boxes he had taken to a house that wasn’t his.
“Yes,” I said. “I called the police because three people broke into my house without permission and refused to leave.”
My father burst into loud laughter, but stopped halfway.
“Don’t talk like that. We are your family.” Before I could answer, two officers knocked. I opened the door and they came in.
The senior officer asked calmly: “Whose property is this, or who is renting it?”
I raised my hand before anyone else could say anything.
“Yes, my name is Catherine Miller. I bought this house two years ago. They don’t live there. They made a copy of my key without my permission, broke in without my permission, and moved my brother’s belongings to my guest room.”
My mother immediately stepped forward with her sweet, public voice, the voice she used when she wanted strangers to think she was vulnerable and reasonable.
“Officer, this is just a misunderstanding within the family. Our son needed help and our daughter is very emotional.”
I almost had to laugh.
Emotional.
That was always their favorite word to say no to me.
My father added: “We have an emergency key. Parents are allowed to keep an eye on their children.”
The smaller officer looked at him and asked: “Is your daughter a minor?”
Silence.
My father clenched his jaw.
‘No, but—’
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