I immediately said yes.

That was my mistake.

Two months became four.

Four became six.

Then a year passed.

Mia stopped mentioning moving out entirely.

At first, I didn’t mind.

She was family.

But gradually, my apartment stopped feeling like mine.

Her clothes were everywhere.

Shoes by the door.

Makeup scattered across the bathroom.

Laundry covering the couch.

Her friends came over without asking.

Sometimes I would return from work and find four people drinking in my living room.

Whenever I complained, Mia always had an answer.

“You never do anything anyway.”

Or:

“You’re acting like an old man.”

She contributed almost nothing financially.

No rent.

Barely any groceries.

And somehow, despite living free in my home, she constantly criticized me.

Karen encouraged it.

Whenever I suggested Mia should start paying something, my stepmother would say:

“You have more than you need, Thomas.”

Whenever I asked when Mia planned to leave: