Home Invasion

Home Invasion

One

‘Mum, why are you doing this to me?’ I ask with a glare.

‘Sweetheart, this is not something we are doing to you. It’s something we require of you,’ she states.

‘So, that’s it? I don’t get a say?’ I retort in frustration.

‘A family needs our help, and it’s only seven days. It is the right thing to do. You will see that,’ Mum says with finality.

I slump with an overexaggerated sigh. Why us? ‘Only seven days.’ That’s a week of my summer holiday. Any moment, a strange family is arriving to set up camp in our home. Apparently, I am not even allowed to know their names.

I escape to my temporary digs in the study and wait by the window like a caged animal.

When they arrive, I size up the people who have come to infiltrate our lives. The mother is younger than my own. There’s a teenage girl about my age, a boy around eight, and a little girl who is maybe four. Wonderful.

I stay put. But right on que, my mother’s dulcet voice demands my mandatory attendance. Here we go.

Two

The coffee pot is drained, and my caffeine-deprived brain fears an impending aneurysm. I look pointedly at the teenager sitting at the kitchen table, drinking from my cup.

‘Sorry,’ she shyly apologises before returning her eyes to her phone.

I make a dramatic exit and return to the study.

Three

I’m not allowed to see friends. Instead, I am expected to entertain the hijackers while my dad goes to work and my mum spends her day on work calls.

The mother rarely comes downstairs, so I leave meals outside her room, scared to go in. The last two days, I could hear her crying. But I stuffed my earphones in, pretending not to notice or care.

The teenager is sitting in the same spot at the kitchen table, playing on her phone. She must suffer from carpal tunnel syndrome.

I search for a place to exist in my own home and settle on the floor. In my peripheral vision, I observe the boy lost in a video game. Nice of him to ask if he could commandeer the PlayStation. He plays well, though.

My lips move before my brain has time to process. ‘Have you ever played Assassins Creed Odyssey?’

Without looking, the boy hands me the second controller. I take it and sit on the floor beside him. The little girl quietly sits on the other side.

Four

I get up early to be first to the coffee pot and retrieve cups for me and the teenager, who came in behind me. She takes her coffee black with one sugar. I tell myself I was making one anyway, so it’s no big deal. We sit in silence, which is oddly comforting, and she slides over the milk jug.

The child arrives next. I am almost getting used to her being my permanent sidekick. When I move, she moves. The definition of a space-invader.

The boy is at the computer, and the mother is still upstairs.

Five

This time when I take the mother dinner, I knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ she says.

She briefly looks up with a weak smile as I place the tray on the bedside table. Vacantly, she stares into space. The look in her eyes is haunted, and I wonder what could have happened to reflect such fear. Her face is blotchy from the obvious tears that have been cried, and her eyes are bloodshot.

Not sure what has come over me, I go to the en suite bathroom and retrieve some cleanser and moisturiser, along with a box of tissues.

‘May I?’ I gesture to the toiletries.

She nods absently. Then, I gently clean and moisturise her beaten skin.

As I turn to leave, she grasps my hand, and I experience a moment of connection with this stranger.

I squeeze her hand in return before quietly closing the door and making my way back downstairs. Nobody needs to know.

Six

My parents make breakfast for everyone while I brew the coffee. We haven’t spoken much this week. We all sit in comfortable silence, and my mum and I share a look of understanding.

‘Prepared to lose this time?’ I challenge the boy who’s getting up from the table.

He looks at me for the first time and gives a good attempt at a giggle. The teenager follows us to the sitting room to watch, and the child continues to be my shadow.

As I prepare lunch, the mother comes downstairs. Without saying a word, she proceeds to find the cutlery and sets the table.

‘Thank you,’ I say, surprised by her presence.

She gives me a look that conveys a thousand words before helping me lay out the food.

The teenager puts her phone away, the mother and the boy eat like they’ve just discovered food, and the child looks up at me like a magpie finding her most precious gem. I shift awkwardly and smile inwardly.

Before bedtime, the child throws herself into my arms. The warmth that radiates from this one act stays with me as I fall asleep.

Seven

I wake to the sound of a car door closing and move to the window. I see the family leave my driveway in a vehicle I do not recognise. My parents are waving goodbye. Why didn’t they wake me?

I run down the stairs, but it’s too late. The car is already at the end of our street.

The week I had not wanted is over. My mother had been right; I do see now. The family will forever own a week of my life, and I can only hope they will know the impact they had on me.

My eyes cramp as tears threaten to surface. If possible, one day we will reconnect. Until then, I silently thank them for the change I feel beginning to bloom.