They never knocked. My in-laws used the key they’d kept since helping with our down payment, walking in like the house belonged to them. Aarav would remind me, “They helped us buy this place,” as if that excused everything. One afternoon, I came home early to find his mother opening my mail and reading my journal. His father was on speakerphone with our internet provider pretending to be Aarav. They froze when I walked in. That night, fury kept me awake more than fear ever could.
Looking back, the signs were always there—the surprise “visits,” rearranging my kitchen, installing a security system without asking, even stocking our fridge like it was theirs. Aarav said they meant well. I kept trying to believe him. Then I caught them digging through my pantry again, and Rajan had a spreadsheet of our expenses open.
Aarav had given them access to our bank account. I packed a bag and left. A week later, I told Aarav we needed to buy them out of the house. Every cent. With interest. He shocked me by agreeing—and by standing up to them when they refused and called me ungrateful. We sold the car, worked extra jobs, cut every luxury. Slowly, we repaid them.
The day the final transfer went through, I cried from relief. Aarav changed the locks. We didn’t explain. It took months, but eventually his mother wrote a letter admitting she’d overstepped. Now they knock. They ask. They respect no. Our home is finally ours—quiet, imperfect, and free. And if you’ve ever needed your space back, remember: you’re allowed to change the locks.