Chapter 4 - Packing Other People’s Delusions
By the second week of January, Chloe’s enthusiasm had reached a fever pitch. She treated my apartment like a catalog showroom she had won in a lottery.
She dropped by uninvited twice while I was at work, using a spare physical key my mother had unethically copied years ago during an emergency medical scare—a key I had foolishly forgotten to retrieve. She didn't steal anything; instead, she left sticky notes on my furniture.
I found one stuck to my minimalist Scandinavian coffee table: “Painting this white.” Another was on my custom bookshelf: “Flynn says these shelves are tacky. Moving them to the garage.” A third was plastered across the vanity mirror in my private bathroom: “Master suite! Can't wait to soak in this tub.”
Instead of getting angry, I collected the sticky notes, stacked them neatly in a ziplock bag, and tossed them into my filing cabinet. Evidence. Every single piece of evidence cataloging their arrogant assumption of ownership.
On a Friday evening, Chloe called me directly. Her voice was dripping with condescension disguised as sisterly concern.
“Jessi, are you still dragging your feet about packing? Honestly, you’re making this so stressful for everyone. The movers are booked for next Thursday, January 22nd. You really need to have your personal junk out of the master closet by then so Flynn can start moving his audio equipment in.”
I kept my voice light, practicing the exact cadence of a defeated person yielding to pressure. “Next Thursday, the 22nd? Are you sure you have everything coordinated with the building management?”
“Ugh, building management is such a pain with their bureaucratic forms,” Chloe complained. “They wanted proof of residency or a lease transfer document. But Mom said she talked to some board member friend, or whatever, and that we can just use a standard family authorization form. Flynn is handling the paperwork. Honestly, Jessi, stop worrying. We’ve got it all under control.”
Oh, they had it under control, all right, I thought, suppressing a dark smile. They were driving straight off a cliff with the cruise control locked.
“Alright, Chloe,” I whispered softly into the phone. “Do whatever you think is best.”
“Great! Glad you’re finally being reasonable for once,” she chirped, and hung up without even saying goodbye.
May you like
That weekend, I quietly packed my actual valuables—my passport, legal papers, hard drives containing financial records, family heirlooms from my maternal grandmother, and my favorite minimalist art pieces. I moved them into a secure, climate-controlled storage unit three miles away. I left behind my heavy furniture, standard kitchenware, and a few boxes of old clothes to maintain the illusion that a normal resident was still living inside.
The stage was set. The actors were rehearsing their lines. All that remained was opening night.
