And there they were.

My dad sat on a stool, fixing a cabinet hinge. My mom, wrapped in her winter coat, sat on a folding chair next to a cot. A camping stove balanced precariously on a table.

When my mom saw me, she smiled sadly.
“Honey,” she whispered.

“Mom? What is this?”

“It’s temporary,” she insisted.
“They needed some space,” Dad added gruffly.

It was all I could do not to cry.

“Pack a bag,” I told them. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

I booked them the nicest hotel in town—a real place, with fireplaces in the lobby and soft, clean beds. Then I went back to the garage.

“We’re leaving now,” I said.

My mom hesitated. “Sweetheart, we don’t want to make a scene.”

“I’ll make it for you,” I replied.

Once they were safe, tucked under proper sheets and surrounded by warmth, I opened my laptop and got to work.

I’m a contracts manager. Fine print is my specialty. Cassandra might have thought she was clever, but I know how to play by the rules—and the rules were on my side.I dug through old family files and found the deed. Cassandra’s name wasn’t on it. Only my parents’. Legally, she was just a guest. And guests can be evicted.

But first, I had a little plan.

I invited Cassandra to lunch.

She showed up smiling, acting like we were best friends again. She babbled about how much “work” the house needed and how “tough” it was managing everything.

I let her talk.

Halfway through her avocado toast, I said,
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe Mom and Dad do need help. Maybe selling the house is the answer.”