After two exhausting months away, worrying at my sick father’s bedside, I finally returned home — only to hear my front door unlock.
A young woman stepped inside like she belonged there.
When I demanded to know who she was, her answer gave me chills: “Michael gave me the key.”
After spending two months at the hospital with my mom while she cared for my dad, all I wanted was to collapse into my own bed when I got home.
But something seemed off the moment I entered the apartment.
There was a strange scent in the air. Something sweeter than the familiar scents of my lavender fabric softener and vanilla air freshener.
But I brushed it off as some side effect from being away from home for so long or getting so used to the disinfectant scent of the hospital.
My muscles ached from too many nights spent in that rigid hospital chair, watching my father’s chest rise and fall while machines beeped. They were a constant reminder of how fragile life could be.
Mom had insisted I go home and get some real rest.
“You’re no good to anyone if you work yourself sick,” she’d said, practically shoving me out the door.
I’d booked the first flight home and arrived just in time for breakfast. My husband greeted me at the door with a warm hug and a million questions about my dad.
“I’ll tell you everything, but first, I need a shower,” I replied.
The minute I stepped into the bathroom, that strange, sweet scent hit me full force.
I made a mental note to ask Michael about it later and stepped into the shower.
I scrubbed away the hospital smell, and the hours spent cramped into an economy seat on the plane and tried to relax.
I slipped into my fluffy bathrobe and stepped out into the hall. I was making my way to the kitchen when I heard the distinctive click of a key turning in the front door lock.
My heart jumped into my throat.
Michael said he’d make breakfast while I was in the shower, so who could be entering our home?
Grabbing the nearest weapon I could find — a carved wooden horse because apparently, that was going to save me from an intruder — I turned to face the front door.
A woman strode in like she owned the place.
Young, gorgeous, with the kind of perfectly styled hair I could never achieve, even with three hours and a professional stylist. Her designer handbag probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
She wasn’t sneaking or looking around suspiciously. No, she walked in like this was her home; like she belonged here more than I did.
Her eyes landed on me, and she froze.
The confusion on her face quickly morphed into suspicion, her perfectly shaped eyebrows drawing together.
“Who are YOU?” she demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
I gripped my robe, suddenly very aware that I was practically naked while this woman looked like she’d stepped off a magazine cover.
“Excuse me?
I live here. Who are YOU?”
She tilted her head, studying me like I was some kind of abstract art piece she couldn’t quite figure out. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“I was away for two months,” I said, my voice shaking with anger.
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