My mom’s ceramic angel collection disappeared from the mantel within the first week. She called them “junk.” Then the family photo wall came down. One afternoon, I came home from school to find our oak dining table—the one where I learned to read, carved pumpkins, and celebrated every holiday—sitting out on the curb.
“Refreshing the space,” Stephanie said brightly as she fluffed a throw pillow on our now expensive furniture. Everything was shiny now. Perfect.
My dad told me to be patient. “She’s just trying to make it feel like home,” he said.
But it wasn’t our home anymore.
It was hers.
The first time Stephanie saw my mom’s dress, she wrinkled her nose like I’d shown her something disgusting.
