Break Down The Door, This Is My Apartment — My Sister And Mother Came With Dad To Take It From Me.

I woke at six twelve in the morning to the sound of metal prying at the lock of the apartment I bled to buy. Through the peephole, my mother held a crowbar. My sister clutched a box of documents. My father stood behind them, certain this door would yield. The real shock wasn't the crowbar. It was their calculated punctuality, a hostile takeover before dawn. I didn't know yet that this was a heist wrapped in the word family.