They never knocked—just the quiet click of a key and my in-laws were inside, as if the house had invited them. Aarav would whisper, “Be nice. They helped us buy this place,” and I’d remind myself that thirty percent of a down payment didn’t mean thirty percent ownership.

One afternoon, I came home to find my mother-in-law reading my mail and journal, while his father pretended to be Aarav on the phone. I didn’t yell; I just stood there, holding my keys until they left. That night, I decided I was done.

They rearranged my kitchen, changed curtains, even installed a “family” security system without asking. Whenever I protested, they’d smile and say, “You’re welcome.” Aarav claimed they meant well—but meaning well doesn’t excuse invasion.

When I found out they had access to our finances, I left. Later, Aarav and I agreed to “buy them out.” We sold the car, took extra jobs, and repaid every cent. The day the money cleared, Aarav changed the locks.

Months later, Priya wrote, admitting that control had been her “version of care.” It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. With new boundaries—knock, ask, respect “no”—the house finally became ours.