I didn’t know what I was looking for. But then I saw the light through the side window. I opened the garage door slowly.
There my parent were.
My dad was sitting on a stool, fixing an old cabinet hinge. My mom was in a folding chair, wearing her winter coat inside.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Honey.”
I said, “Mom? What is this?”
She looked down. “It’s temporary.”
My dad didn’t even discover. “Your mom’s cold. I told her to wear gloves.”
“Why are you out here?” I said. My voice cracked. “What happened?”
They looked at each other. Then my mom said, “It’s nothing. Cassandra and Nathan just needed some space.”
“In the house?” I said.
“They’re fixing it up,” my mom whispered. “Just for a while.”
I just looked at my mom and said, real quiet, “Pack a bag. I’ll be back in an hour.”
She twinkled. “What?”
“You heard me.”
My dad set down his screwdriver. “Where are we going?”
“You’re not staying in this garage another night.”
Ten minutes later, I drove them to the nicest hotel in town.
“One room, two beds, full week,” I said at the front desk.
Back at the garage, I walked in with the keycard and a smile.
“We’re leaving now,” I said.
Once they were tucked into clean sheets with heat, cable, and real pillows, I went home — to my hotel room — and opened my laptop.
I’m a contracts manager. Cassandra may play games, but I play by the rules.
First, I collected our family’s digital files — my parents keep backups on an old thumb drive. Then, my mom and I went back to the garage the next day and opened the locked file cabinet. My mom’s eyes widened.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “Just trust me.”
Inside was everything I needed — property records, tax forms, insurance papers. And the house deed.
Cassandra’s name was nowhere. Just my dad’s and mom’s. Which meant Cassandra? Legally. Just. A. Guest. And guests can be removed.
