By morning, Caroline had sent formal notices to Marcus, Natalie, the locksmith company, the listing platform, and the property manager Marcus had contacted. I tightened access controls, changed the security system, installed cameras, updated the trust protections, and added a no-trespass instruction through local counsel.
Dad hated the cameras.
“It feels like a bank,” he muttered.
“It’ll feel like home again when you know nobody can walk in and reassign your life,” I said.
He stopped arguing.
The days after were quieter than the porch scene but uglier in their own way.
Natalie called seventeen times in three days.
First furious.
How dare I involve police.
How dare I humiliate Marcus.
How dare I make our parents choose sides.
Then wounded.
We were trying to help.
You always assume the worst.
You’ve always treated me like a child.
Then tearful.
Marcus has been under so much stress.
You don’t know our finances.
He just saw an opportunity.
Mom and Dad weren’t using the house efficiently.
Efficiently.
That word belongs in warehouses, not in a daughter’s mouth about her parents’ home.
I answered once because Mom begged me to.
Natalie was crying before she said hello.
“I know it looked bad,” she said.
“It was bad.”
“You don’t know how much pressure Marcus is under.”
I stood on my balcony in Los A
