Chapter 7 - The Breach
It happened at precisely 6:15 PM.
My phone didn't just ring; it vibrated continuously against the wooden coffee table, a frantic digital heartbeat signaling utter chaos.
I picked it up. It was a FaceTime call from my mother.
I swiped to answer, propping the phone against a stack of books on the coffee table so I could calmly take a sip of my wine while watching the impending theatrical disaster unfold.
The screen flickered on, revealing my mother standing in the exact center of my former living room. Her face was flushed an alarming shade of crimson, her eyes wide with shock and incandescent rage. Behind her, Kayla stood frozen in the doorway of what used to be my bedroom, her jaw practically dragging on the floor, holding two empty shopping bags in her trembling hands.
“Rachel!” my mother shrieked, her voice cracking with high-pitched hysteria. “What is the meaning of this? What have you done to the apartment?!”
I took a slow, deliberate sip of wine, savoring the vintage before looking directly into the camera lens.
“Hello, Mom. It’s nice to hear from you too. Did you like the open-concept redesign? I always felt the living room needed more breathing room.”
“Don’t play games with me!” Mom screamed, spinning the camera around in a frantic 360-degree pan to showcase the haunting emptiness of the unit. The bare walls, the exposed light sockets, the stripped kitchen counters, and the total absence of furniture flashed across my screen. “The furniture! The appliances! The TV! The bed! Where is everything? The apartment is completely empty!”
“Well, yes,” I replied smoothly, my tone dripping with sweet innocence. “You said it yourself, Mom. It’s your apartment. Your name is on the deed, remember?”
Mom froze, the phone shaking in her grip as she stared back at the screen.
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“You... you rented a truck?” Kayla suddenly shrieked, stepping forward and grabbing the phone out of Mom’s hands, shoving her face right up to the camera lens. Her eyes were wide with pure panic. “Where is my room?! Where is my bed?! You left me a concrete box! There’s not even a mattress! I have nowhere to sleep!”
“Well, Kayla, you’re an independent woman now,” I replied, quoting our mother’s exact words from earlier that week. “You’re still finding yourself. I’m sure you and your friends who were so eager to pay full rent can figure something out.”
