Kimmy bounded up the steps, all smiles now that she’d secured her landing spot.
“Oh, Derek’s crew. They need somewhere to store their tools since the apartment is locked down. Just for the week, like I said. They won’t be staying.”
“Kimmy,” I said.
“I know, I know. They’re just dropping things off.”
She breezed past me into the house, already appraising it like she owned it.
“Wow, you’ve really done something with this place, though. That wall color is a bit cold, don’t you think? I’d have gone with something warmer.”
Derek followed, giving me an awkward nod before directing his crew.
“Just stack everything neat in the garage,” he called out. “We’ll sort it tomorrow.”
“There’s no room in the garage,” I said. “That’s where I store client samples.”
“Living room corner, then,” Kimmy decided, already directing traffic. “Kids, take your bags to Aunt Rachel’s guest room. Carefully, don’t touch anything.”
Within minutes, my orderly home was in chaos. Tool bags and equipment boxes piled up in my living room. Children’s suitcases—far more than overnight bags—were dragged down my hallway. And the men from Derek’s crew were trooping through my house, leaving dusty bootprints on my floors.
“Derek,” one of them called out, “where you want the tile saw?”
“Tile saw?” I whirled on my sister. “Why do you have a tile saw?”
“Oh, that’s for our bathroom renovation,” Kimmy said casually, testing the firmness of my couch cushions. “The one they’re supposed to start after the landlord finishes. Don’t worry, it’s all staying packed.”
By 8:00, my house looked like a construction staging area. The crew had left, but not before one of them used my powder room and left it reeking of cigarette smoke. The children were wound up from the chaos, racing through the halls despite my repeated requests for calm. And Derek had commandeered my television, switching from my carefully curated streaming services to a sports channel at maximum volume.
“Kids need to eat,” Kimmy announced, heading for my kitchen.
“I have some pasta,” I started.
“Aiden only eats chicken nuggets. Bella’s in a mac and cheese phase. You don’t mind if I just order pizza, do you? I’m exhausted from all this stress.”
By the time I escaped to my bedroom that night, my house felt foreign. The guest room door was ajar, revealing suitcases exploded across the floor and toys already scattered on every surface. The living room television continued blaring, and from the kitchen, I could hear Kimmy rummaging through my cabinets, exclaiming over my fancy equipment.
Day two was worse. I woke to find Derek’s crew had returned, using my driveway as a meeting point before heading to their job sites. They’d helped themselves to coffee from my machine, leaving grounds scattered across my previously immaculate counters. Kimmy was still in her pajamas at noon, directing the children to play quietly while she scrolled through her phone on my couch.
“Don’t you have anywhere to be?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“It’s so hard to work with everything in chaos,” she sighed dramatically. “My online business really needs stability, you know. But don’t worry about us. We’re fine just relaxing here.”
That evening brought a new development: Ray. He appeared at my door without warning, overnight bag in hand.
“Heard there was a family gathering,” he announced, pushing past me. “Can’t have my grandkids staying somewhere without checking it out.”
He looked around, appraising.
“Nice place, Rachel. Bit sterile, but nice.”
“This isn’t a hotel,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Family helps family,” he replied, already claiming my favorite armchair. “That’s what you career women never understand. Too busy with your fancy jobs to remember what matters.”
By day three, my one-week house guests had fully colonized my space. Ray held court in the living room, offering unsolicited commentary on everything from my decor choices to my unnatural single status. Kimmy had discovered my home office and set up what she called a temporary workspace, spreading her dubious business materials across my drafting table. The children, sweet as they were, individually had turned my hallways into racetracks and my guest bathroom into what looked like a glitter-bomb testing site.
But it was the kitchen violations that hurt most. Despite my explicit instructions, I’d caught Derek microwaving leftover Chinese food on my good china. Kimmy had reorganized my spice rack to be more intuitive. And someone—I suspected Ray—had used my professional knife set to open packages, leaving nicks in the blades.
“It’s just a kitchen,” Kimmy laughed when I protested. “You’re so uptight about it. Things are meant to be used, Rachel.”
Each night, I retreated to my bedroom earlier, listening to the sounds of my house being lived in by people who didn’t understand or respect what it meant to me. Derek’s crew continued their morning gatherings, now bringing breakfast sandwiches that left grease stains on my porch. Ray’s commentary grew more pointed, especially after his evening bourbons. And Kimmy’s temporary setup expanded daily, with boxes of inventory appearing in my halls.
By Thursday, I was counting hours. Three more days. Seventy-two hours. I could survive anything for seventy-two hours. I focused on work, staying late at client sites, finding reasons to avoid my own home until bedtime. That’s when Kimmy dropped the next bomb. I just returned from a late consultation to find her waiting in the kitchen, sketching something on a notepad.
“So, small change of plans,” she began, not meeting my eyes. “The renovation at our place hit a snag. Something about permits. Might be closer to two weeks now. But honestly, Rachel, this is working out so well. The kids love having a yard. Derek’s crew is so much more efficient meeting here, and I’ve actually made three sales this week from your home office. It’s like fate.”
I stared at her, words failing me. Behind her, I could see she’d push-pinned fabric samples to my kitchen walls. My kitchen walls.
“Two weeks?” I managed.
“Maybe three. Tops.”
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