The Chicago wind cut through my coat like a knife as I climbed the steps to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve, arms loaded with gifts I’d spent my entire year-end bonus on. Designer bags my mother had been hinting at for months, vintage wine, a check for five thousand dollars tucked into a card. I wanted this Christmas to be perfect. I wanted to prove that even though I worked eighty-hour weeks as a forensic accountant and missed Sunday services, I still loved them.
I should have known better.
I unlocked the front door quietly, not wanting to let the cold air rush in. The house smelled like cinnamon and roasted ham, and for a moment, everything felt warm and safe. Then I heard my name, and the tone made my blood run cold.
“She’s a forensic accountant, Marcus,” my brother-in-law Kyle was saying from the living room. “She makes six figures. She doesn’t need a three-bedroom place in the Gold Coast just for herself. It’s greedy. Frankly, it’s obscene.”
I froze in the hallway, melting snow dripping from my boots onto the hardwood floor. Kyle was my younger sister Tasha’s husband—thirty years old, unemployed, and perpetually convinced the world owed him something.
My father’s voice rumbled in response. “You’re right, son. Kesha has lost touch with her roots. She thinks she’s better than us with her fancy degree and her downtown apartment.”
The injustice hit me like a physical blow. They hadn’t paid a dime for my education. I’d worked two jobs through college, taken out loans, built my career from nothing while Tasha was bailed out of every mistake she ever made.
“But what about the legal side?” Tasha’s whining voice cut in. “If she kicks us out, we’ll be homeless again. The landlord said if we don’t pay the six months’ back rent by January first, he’s calling the sheriff.”
Six months. I gripped the wine crate until my knuckles turned white. Tasha had posted photos of a new car just last week, but now I was learning they were facing eviction.
“Don’t worry about the law,” Kyle said confidently. “I looked it up. Illinois has very specific laws protecting tenants. If Kesha lets us stay for just two weeks and we get mail delivered there, we establish residency. It’s called squatters’ rights. Once we’re in, she has to go through a formal eviction process to get us out. That takes months, maybe a year.”
My heart hammered against my ribs as I listened to them plot.
“She’s going to New York for that audit project in January, right?” my father said. “She’ll be gone for two months. You tell her Tasha just needs a place to crash for a few days while her apartment is being painted. Once Kesha leaves, we change the locks.”
Change the locks. My own father was plotting to steal my home.
“It’s the Christian thing to do,” my mother Brenda added, her voice dripping with self-righteousness. “Tasha needs stability to start a family. Kesha has plenty. She can afford to help. It’s her duty as the big sister. If she won’t offer, we’ll just have to make the decision for her.”
I stood there in the hallway, staring at the expensive gifts in my arms. They didn’t see me as a daughter or sister. They saw me as a resource to be harvested. The little girl who wanted her parents to be proud of her died in that moment. In her place, the forensic accountant woke up—the woman who destroyed fraudsters for a living.
I adjusted my face into a smile, stepped out of the shadows, and walked into the living room.
“Merry Christmas, everyone,” I said brightly.
The conversation died instantly. Kyle jerked his legs off the coffee table. Tasha looked terrified. My parents’ guilty expressions quickly shifted into fake, welcoming smiles.
“Kesha, baby,” my mother exclaimed, rushing to hug me. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”
I let her embrace me. Over her shoulder, I made eye contact with Kyle, who was watching me with calculation in his eyes, trying to figure out if I’d heard. I tightened my grip on the wine bottle and smiled wider.
“Here, Dad,” I said, handing him the expensive Cabernet. “Drink up. We have a lot to celebrate this year.”
They had no idea I’d already started planning their eviction.
The dinner was excruciating. I watched Kyle gulp down two-hundred-dollar wine like it was cheap beer while insulting my profession. “Being a forensic accountant basically means you’re a corporate narc,” he said. “I sleep with a clear conscience.”
“I sleep on a memory-foam mattress in a climate-controlled master bedroom,” I replied evenly. “Kyle, how do you sleep?”
My mother cradled the designer bag I’d given her like it was precious, then set it down carelessly to hold Tasha’s hand. “She doesn’t have much money, Kesha, but she gives from the spirit. She has such a good heart. You could learn something about humility from her.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
