The $800 deduction on my bank statement felt like a monthly insult. For three years, I had paid my sister’s rent while I saved every penny. It was time for that cycle to end.
Mr. Rodriguez met me at the local diner, his face etched with concern. I told him everything about the “master bedroom takeover.” He narrowed his eyes and tapped the table.
“I don’t like bullies, Cassie,” he said, sliding a fresh lease toward me. It was for a modern, unlisted apartment across town. He offered to let me break my lease immediately.
The clock was ticking as I returned home to pack in secret. I worked by the dim light of a floor lamp, jumping at every creak. I had to be a ghost by Sunday night.
I taped the final boxes shut with trembling hands, fueled by cold fury. My family thought they were gaining a house. They had no idea they were about to walk into an empty shell.
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