I thought I was bringing a sweet Easter surprise—flowers and chocolates for my parents. What I walked into instead turned my stomach. My sister had taken over their house. My parents were living in the garage—like guests in a life they built.
Apparently, she kicked them out. And I only found out because I showed up unannounced for the holiday.
I live about five hours away, but I call my mom nearly every day. Just to check in. She always said the same thing: “We’re fine, sweetheart. Just the usual.”
And I believed her.
We grew up close. Not wealthy, but full of love. My dad built that house with his own hands. My mom made it feel like home—always warm, always tidy. It smelled like cinnamon no matter the season. It was the kind of place where life felt a little slower.
Cassandra? She was never into “cozy.”
She’s my older sister by two years. Loud, full of drama, always bouncing from one mess to another. But to outsiders? She’s magnetic. All charm and bright smiles. She can destroy you without raising her voice.
This year, I decided to surprise our parents for Easter. No warning. Just grabbed some tulips and a few chocolate eggs and drove out there.
I was buzzing with excitement the whole ride. I imagined my mom’s delighted face. Maybe some old music playing. My dad grilling something on the porch. Easter eggs in the yard.
But when I pulled into the driveway… it was quiet.
I stood there, confused. They never go out on Easter. I knocked. No answer.
I still had my old key, so I let myself in. What I saw stopped me cold.
Everything was different. The warm yellows were gone, replaced by stark gray. The furniture was sleek and cold. The old couch had been replaced by a white leather monstrosity—something that looked more like a waiting room than a home.
The family photos were gone. Replaced by abstract prints. My mom’s antique clock? Missing. In its place, some bizarre metal sculpture that looked like bent coat hangers mid-battle.
For a second, I thought I had the wrong house.
Then I heard her—Cassandra.
“You didn’t tell me your sister was coming,” she snapped.
Then some guy laughed. “What, golden girl? She’ll be gone tomorrow.”
I backed out like the place was on fire. Walked around to the garage, heart pounding. I didn’t even know what I was looking for—until I saw the glow of a light through the side window.
I opened the garage door.
There they were.
Dad sat on a stool, fiddling with a broken cabinet hinge. Mom sat in a folding chair, bundled in a winter coat. A cot in the corner. A tiny camp stove. One table. Two chairs. That was all.
I couldn’t speak. I just stared.
Mom turned, saw me, and whispered, “Oh… honey.”
I asked, “Mom? What is this?”
She looked away and said quietly, “It’s just temporary.”