Someone had been in my house while I was away. Cups I had left in the sink had been washed, dried and put back into the cupboard. The television was now favoring the overstuffed armchair more than the couch. Shirts, hanging in my closet, were grouped together by color.

My house was not my own.

Someone had claimed it.

I hadn’t noticed any difference right away. The fourteen hour flight back had left me jet-lagged and weary. I was still numb from the funeral too. So when I had climbed the stairs to my front door, luggage dragging along behind me like a worn out puppy, the only thing on my mind was how nice it was going to be to have my own pillow again.

It was only over the next few days that I began to notice subtle changes. The first happened when I was standing in front of my bathroom sink. My body remembered my morning routine. Taking stock of my appearance in the mirror, I reached for my razor- and missed. It wasn’t until I looked down that I realized that the blade was on the wrong side of the sink.