At 10:30 the night before, headlights filled my driveway.
Mom climbed out first, smiling like she had planned a surprise party.
“We thought we’d spend the week with you!”
Behind her, Melissa opened the trunk.
Four suitcases.
Two coolers.
Beach toys.
A folding crib.
I stared at everything.
“You didn’t ask.”
Dad waved me off. “Family doesn’t need reservations.”
Apparently, family didn’t need boundaries either.
Within an hour, Melissa had claimed the guest suite I reserved for paying clients, moved her children into my office, opened a bottle of wine from my private cabinet, and asked whether my housekeeper came daily.
“She doesn’t,” I said.
Melissa shrugged. “Then I guess you’re on breakfast duty.”
Everyone laughed.
I didn’t.
At midnight, I went upstairs and set my alarm for 4:00 a.m.
Not because I planned to cook.
Because I planned something they would remember.
At 4:05, I made coffee.
One cup.
Mine.
Then I opened my laptop and sent three emails.
The first went to my property manager.
The second to the local hospitality company handling short-term rentals for neighboring villas.
The third to my attorney.
By 4:45, everything was arranged.
At 5:02, Melissa walked into the kitchen wearing my robe.
“Where’s breakfast?”
I took a slow sip of coffee.
