She moved my sectional until my coffee table nearly blocked the hallway, then stood back like she had just created a masterpiece.
“And those roses outside,” she added. “You really should trim them. They’re looking a little wild.”
Those roses were my pride. I had spent three years growing them. But to Juliette, anything that was not under her control needed correcting.
While she criticized my furniture and flowers, Sarah and Kate took over the kitchen island. They spread snacks, bags, cups, wipes, and toys across my clean counters without asking. Their children ran through the house like a storm with shoes on.
Eight-year-old Tyler dripped popsicle juice onto my white carpet and demanded to know where the bathroom was.
“Down the hall, sweetie,” I said, already reaching for the carpet cleaner.
His sister Madison looked into my pantry and whined, “Why don’t you have good snacks?”
The “good snacks,” of course, were the ones I always bought. The ones they never brought. The ones that magically came out of my grocery budget every single holiday.
Outside, Juliette called from the patio, “Annie, the meat looks a little dry. Are you sure you’re not overcooking it?”
I smiled because screaming was not polite.
