The locks were changed. The garage apartment was emptied. I moved my things back into the master bedroom.
Twelve days later, their plane landed back in Virginia.
Their ride turned onto our familiar street with its neat mailboxes.
They believed they were coming home to the same setup. The free childcare. The free house.
A neighbor texted me that they were pulling into the driveway.

I sat on the front porch. The thick manila folder rested on my lap.
The car pulled away. My son confidently walked up to the front door. He tried his key. It did not turn.
He looked at the door. He looked at the taped legal notice. He looked at me sitting on the porch.
The color drained from his face entirely.

The twins were already running toward the backyard.
“Dad,” he stammered. “What is this?”
“I found your safety planning playbook,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “I decided to make my own arrangements.”
His wife dropped her expensive carry-on bag. It hit the concrete hard.
They stood on the driveway of a house they no longer had access to.
The manila folder is still on my desk today. But the locks are changed.