The rented moving truck was already blocking my gate when my mother pressed the intercom.
I was sitting at my desk reviewing payroll for my twelve employees when her voice suddenly came through the speaker.
“Open the gate, Paige. We’ve been driving for three hours, and the children are exhausted.”
I stared at the security monitor.
There she was.
My mother, Diane Whitaker, stood beneath the camera in a beige coat, wearing the same impatient expression I remembered from childhood.
Beside her stood my twin sister, Mallory, her husband Grant, and their three children.
The moving truck blocked half of the gravel driveway. Several sealed cardboard boxes were already stacked beside the gate.
They had packed everything before they had even asked whether they were welcome.
Mallory stepped closer to the intercom.
“The downstairs suite should work perfectly for Grant and me,” she announced. “The children can take the bedrooms across the hallway.”
