Rita turned off the engine and stared at the cottage through the windscreen. It looked the samethe same blue roof, the same birch trees lining the perimeter, the same green gate her father had painted years ago. The only oddity was the light glowing on the porch. Neighbours, perhaps? Though they knew she hadnt visited in nearly a year.
She reached for her bag on the back seatthen froze. Someone was moving across the garden. A shadow flitted between the apple trees before reappearing closer to the house. A woman in a T-shirt and shorts, carrying a child.
What on earth Rita muttered, stepping out of the car.
She approached the gate and stopped, rooted to the spot. Voices, laughter, the clink of dishes drifted from inside. Childrens clothes dried on the porch. Under the awning stood bicyclestwo adult-sized, one childs. And the gate swung open with a familiar creak when she pushed it.
Her feet carried her to the front door, her mind screaming one thought: *Someone is living here. In my house.* The door was ajar, and in the hallway, she nearly tripped over a pair of tiny sandals. Strangers coats hung on the hooks, two large suitcases sat in the corner, and a basket of toys lay tipped over.
Her heart pounded in her throat. From the kitchen came a womans voicesomething about a forest walk the next dayfollowed by a childs laughter and the scrape of cutlery. The smell of fried potatoes and dill filled the air.
Mum, can we go to the river tomorrow? a boys voice piped up.
Well see, Thomas. If it doesnt rain
Rita took a step forward. Then another. She halted in the doorway.
At the table sat a man in his mid-thirties in a checkered shirt, beside him a woman of similar ageblonde hair tied back. A little girl, about three, perched on her lap, while across from them, an older boy waved his fork, chattering excitedly.
The woman noticed Rita first. Her face went slack, her eyes widening. The mug in her hand slipped and shattered on the floor.
What are you doing here? she stammered. We never thought youd turn up
Rita recognised the voice. *Emily.* Her ex-husbands sister. The woman whod always been sweetuntil the divorce.
Emily? Ritas voice came out hoarse. What are you *doing* here?
Emilys husband*James*rose slowly from his chair, his face flushed. The children fell silent, staring at the unfamiliar woman.
Rita we thought James began.
Thought *what*?
Mark said you never came here anymore. That the place was just sitting empty.
Mark *said*? Ritas face burned. And what else did my *ex-husband* say?
Emily scooped up the mug shards, still holding her daughter, who whimpered and clung tighter.
Look, we didnt mean any harm, Emily said quickly. Were on holiday, and renting is so expensive. Mark said the keys were still here from when we all visited. Remember? Your birthday, three years ago
The keys were *here*, Rita repeated slowly. So you just decided to move into *my* house?
James cut in, We *would* have asked, but we didnt have your number
Youre missing the point, Rita snapped. This isnt about *asking*. You had no right to be here in the first place.
She demanded to know how long theyd been there.
A week, Emily admitted. We planned to stay another ten days
Rita stared. The silence in the kitchen thickened. The boy set down his fork, glancing nervously between his parents. The little girl sniffled, sensing the tension.
James tried again. We didnt mean any harm. The house was empty. Weve kept it clean, watered the plants
*That doesnt make it yours!* Ritas voice cracked. You walked into *my* home like you owned it!
We didnt *break in*! Emily shot back. Mark gave us the keys! We thought
Thought *what*? That Id died? That the house was up for grabs?
Emily paled, clutching her daughter tighter. You dont understand. This is our only holiday all year. We couldnt afford
Not my problem, Rita cut in.
But something in Jamess weary face gave her pause. His frayed cuffs, the shadows under his eyes. Emilys tired expression, her homemade haircut.
Still. *Still.*
Out, Rita said coldly. By morning.
The argument spiralledpleading, crying children (Mum, are we going home? What about the river?), Emilys desperate bargaining (Just a few more nights!). Rita stood firm.
By midnight, the family packed their bags, the children bundled into pyjamas under their coats. James hauled suitcases to their battered car while Emily shot Rita a venomous glare.
Youll *regret* this.
Rita locked the gate behind them and exhaled.
Silence.
Yet unease gnawed at her. She spent the night tossing, every creak setting her on edge. *What if they came back?*
At dawn, she called a locksmith. New locks, new keys*only hers*. No more surprises.
She scrubbed the kitchen, bagged forgotten toys, wiped away all traces of their stay. The garden, at least, looked tendedneatly mown grass, trimmed bushes.
Still. *Not an excuse.*
She hammered a sign onto the gate: *PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT.*
The next evening, Emily called. The children were sicktheyd spent the night in the car. Couldnt Rita *please* let them stay until they recovered?
No.
You *heartless*
Rita hung up. Blocked the number.
A week later, Mark showed upolder, greyer, in a crumpled T-shirt.
Emily called, he said. The kids are ill because of you.
Rita scoffed. *I* didnt invite them into my house.
He left, scowling.
Summer stretched on. Rita painted the fence, planted flowers, made the cottage hers again. Neighbours asked about that nice family whod stayed. Rita shrugged.
Thenscratches on the shed lock. Dug-up soil near the door. *Looking for spare keys.*
Rita installed cameras. No more chances.
By autumn, the cottage was *home*her refuge, secure, untouched by intruders. No more calls from Emily. No more visits from Mark.
Finally, theyd learned: *whats mine isnt yours.*
