I caught her one evening as she let herself in while I was home. I was standing in the hallway in socks, my heart already racing before the lock even clicked, because my body was learning fear the way it learns weather.
She stepped inside with a tote bag and a grin. “Hey,” she said. “I brought my ring light. I need your window for a shoot. Your place has better light than mine.”
“You can’t keep doing this,” I said.
My voice surprised me. It sounded steadier than I felt.
Claire blinked like she hadn’t heard me right. “Marin, seriously—”
I held my keys up the way a person holds a tiny weapon. “I’m asking you to stop coming in here. You’ve opened my mail. You’ve gone through my drawers. You use my things like you live here. You don’t.”
She laughed—quick and bright—like I’d told a joke. “You’re overreacting. God, you’re always overreacting.”
That laugh did something to me. It made my skin feel too tight. It made the room tilt, because it wasn’t just dismissal. It was the same look she used to give me as kids when I begged her to stop taking my stuff. The same look that said my discomfort was entertainment.
I tried one more time. “I need you to give me the key.”
She waved her hand like she was swatting a fly. “Mom said I could have it. If you want to fight about it, fight with Mom.”
And there it was—the triangle. Claire tucked safely behind Mom and Dad somewhere in the background, and Dad pretending he didn’t hear the noise.
I did fight with Mom. Not screaming, not dramatic—just firm.
“Mom,” I said, “I’m not doing this. I’m an adult. This is my home. I need my key back from Claire.”
Mom’s voice turned sharp. “Marin, don’t make me choose between my daughters.”
I almost laughed then, because she had already chosen. She’d chosen a long time ago. But all I said was, “I’m not asking you to choose. I’m asking you to respect me.”
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