Two months. That’s how long I had been away, taking care of my mother after her surgery. Two long, exhausting months filled with hospital cafeteria food, uncomfortable chair naps, and constant worry.
The only thing keeping me going was the thought of finally returning to my own apartment, my own bed, and, of course, my husband, Michael.
I had barely been home for an hour, fresh out of the shower, when I heard the front door unlock.
My first thought? Michael had stepped out and forgotten something.
My second thought? Why hadn’t I heard his car pull up?
I peeked into the hallway, towel wrapped around my head, still in my bathrobe.
That’s when I saw her.
A young, pretty woman stood there as if she owned the place, her manicured fingers clutching a set of keys.
She froze, her expression a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.
“Who are YOU?” she blurted out.
I blinked. “Excuse me? Who am I?
I live here!
Who are YOU?”
