Inside, nearly twenty people were treating my home like a free vacation rental.
Children raced through the living room, cutting between furniture and shouting over the music. Ryan’s parents sat at my table drinking coffee from my favorite mugs. Paper grocery bags and food containers covered the kitchen island.
Someone had opened cabinets that were usually kept closed.
Someone else had dragged several of my deck chairs toward the water.
A wet towel had been dropped across the arm of the chair where I usually sat to read.
I stood in the doorway, still holding my duffel bag, and tried to understand how a family gathering involving almost twenty people could have been planned inside my home without anyone thinking I deserved a phone call.
Then Ryan noticed me.
He came across the room with his arms crossed, moving like a man who had been interrupted in a place he believed belonged to him.
