The details were disturbing enough to make you wonder how someone could share them so casually—let alone smile while doing it.
Kelly didn’t have a job.
She never cooked.
She never cleaned.
She spent her days sprawled around the house, endlessly scrolling on her phone, vanishing on weekends and leaving her young daughter behind with me.
Whenever I objected, she scoffed.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “You don’t have kids.”
Olivia, predictably, took her side.
She always did.
Then Kelly began helping herself to my belongings.
