Their rental had a serious cockroach infestation, she said. The exterminator was tenting the whole house. They had to be out for two days.
"With five kids, we just don't know where to go," she said. Her voice was different. Almost soft.
I hesitated. Five kids. Two adults. Three bedrooms.
Then I said, "Stay with us. It's only two nights."
"Really?" A pause. Then the old Monica came back. "Huh. Maybe you're useful after all."
I told myself she was joking.
When I got home that night and told Shane, he just smiled and kissed my forehead. "You're the best, babe. I already told Troy he could come by tomorrow."
"Already?"
"Monica called me at lunch. I figured you'd say yes."
The next morning, before I left for my shift, I saw Shane hand Troy our spare house key in the driveway.
I expected overnight bags. A pack-and-play for the toddler. Maybe some cereal.
Instead, I came home at seven that night to boxes.
Boxes in the hallway. Boxes in the living room. Boxes stacked against the wall in my dining room. Toys everywhere. A plastic slide in the middle of my living room. A high chair at my kitchen table. Somebody's bike leaning against my piano.
And Monica, in my guest room, unpacking clothes into the dresser.
"Monica," I said slowly. "Why are you unpacking?"
She didn't look up. "With five kids, you don't live out of suitcases."
"For two nights?"
She smiled. "Relax, Maya."
Later that night, after the kids were finally asleep in my guest room, my office, and on an air mattress in my living room, I pulled Shane into our bedroom and closed the door.
"Shane. This looks like they're moving in."
He squeezed my hand. "Honey. They're family. It won't be for long."
"How long is long?"
"A few days." He kissed me. "Don't stress. You're amazing for doing this."
Two nights passed. Then three. Then four.
The toddler cried every night at three a.m. The twins fought over the bathroom every morning. Troy watched sports on my television until one a.m. with the volume at forty. Monica rearranged my kitchen cabinets "so they make sense." Somebody broke my grandmother's teapot. Nobody said sorry.
On Thursday night, I came home from a twelve-hour shift and found my bedroom door open. My closet door open. Monica's nine-year-old, Lily, was sitting on my bed wearing my good silk scarf, trying on my lipstick.
"Mom said it was okay," Lily said cheerfully.
I found Monica in the kitchen. "Your daughter's in my bedroom. In my things."
"She's nine, Maya. Lighten up." Monica didn't look up from her phone. "Besides, you have so much stuff. It's good to share."
That night, Shane rubbed my back in bed and whispered, "Just a few more days, babe. I promise. You're being so great about this."
I believed him. I wanted to.
On Friday, I noticed that the mail on the hall table had changed. There were envelopes addressed to Troy and Monica Reyes at my address. A cable bill. A school enrollment form. A letter from a credit card company.
"Did you forward your mail here?" I asked Monica.
"Just temporarily," she said. "We don't want anything to get lost while we're away."
The forwarding request, I found out later, had been filed with the post office three weeks before she called me about cockroaches.
On Saturday morning, I came down to the kitchen at eight. Monica was sitting at my kitchen table in her robe, drinking coffee out of my favorite mug. Troy was in the backyard with the kids. Shane was on the couch, scrolling on his phone.
"Morning," I said. "Did the exterminator say it was safe to go back yet?"
Monica took a sip. "Oh, yes."
"Good." I smiled. "So when are you guys thinking of heading home?"
She looked up from her coffee.
"We're not."
I blinked.
"This works better for us," she said calmly. "The kids have more space here. The school district's better. Troy's commute's shorter." She set down the mug. "We've already talked about it."
"We?"
She smiled. That same smile she'd given my lemon tart three years earlier.
"Come on, Maya. You've spent three years trying to prove how welcoming you are. Here's your chance."
I turned and looked at my husband.
He didn't look up from his phone.
I didn't argue. I didn't cry. I didn't yell.
I just smiled back at her.
Because Monica had no idea what I was about to do.
And neither did Shane.
CHAPTER 2: FOR SALE
I went upstairs, closed my bedroom door, and called a woman named Gloria Fenn.
Gloria was a real estate agent. Twenty-five years in Cedar Hollow. She'd sold me my house six years ago. We'd stayed friends.
"Gloria," I said. "Remember last fall, when you told me you had three buyers who'd kill for a house like mine?"
"I remember," she said. "Why? You want to sell?"
"I want you to list it," I said. "Today. And I want open houses. Every day this week. Every single day."
There was a pause on the line.
"Maya," Gloria said carefully. "Are you okay?"
"I've never been better."
She was at my front door at eleven, with a clipboard, a photographer, and a big red-and-white sign.
FOR SALE. FENN REALTY.
She hammered it into my front lawn while Monica watched from the front window with her mouth open.
