Chapter 1Selling The Illusion Of Home

The moment I stepped onto the gravel driveway of my childhood home for the Columbus Day weekend, my brother-in-law shoved a tablet with a digital registration form into my chest.

"How many nights, Nora? It’s peak fall foliage season, so rates are up, but you're family. I’ll give you twenty percent off."

I stared at him. "I have to pay for a room in my own house?"

Ryan chuckled, tapping the screen. "It's a boutique inn now. October is our busiest month. Every room we have is a premium." He pointed to the Square reader attached to the tablet. "If you take a room, that’s one less paying customer we can book. The King Suite is two-fifty a night. Pay upfront for the days you want."

My mother, standing off to the side, gently tugged at my sleeve. "Your sister and Ryan are working so hard to keep this business afloat, honey. Don't make things difficult for them."

Tourists wandering through the courtyard paused, their eyes darting toward us.

Five years ago, Ryan lost his corporate job. My sister, Haley, was a stay-at-home mom, and my parents were scraping by on meager social security checks. I was the one who bought this sprawling, rundown Victorian for $350,000, pouring another $150,000 into renovations to turn it into an Instagram-worthy bed and breakfast. I handed them the keys and the management rights. Every dime of profit went straight into their pockets.

Yet here I was, stepping onto the porch of the house I owned, being treated like a walk-in who needed to swipe a credit card before crossing the threshold.

I didn't argue. I pulled out my phone, tapped my card against the reader, and paid for three nights.

Then, I opened my messages and texted my real estate agent.

The Creekbrook Inn. Put it on the market.

* * *

I had my foot on the bottom stair when Ryan stepped into my path.

"Nora, the payment hasn't cleared yet."

A couple from Massachusetts turned their heads from the porch swing.

I met Ryan's eyes. "I'm paying to stay in the house I bought?"

Ryan laughed, a thin, breathy sound. "Come on, Nora, don't look at it like that. We're running a business here. You might be family, but the books have to be clean." He tapped the calculator app on his phone. "It’s two-fifty a night right now. With your family discount, that’s two hundred. Three nights comes to six hundred bucks."

A sudden, sharp laugh clawed its way up my throat.

The down payment, the mortgage, the contractor fees, the plumbing disasters, and the operating losses of the first two years—I had funded all of it.

I remembered my mother gripping my hands back then, weeping softly. "Thank God for you, Nora. Because of you, this will always be your home."

My father had told me to keep a spare key on my ring so I could come back whenever the city wore me down. That key was still heavy at the bottom of my purse. But suddenly, I was just a guest with a tab.

I looked at my mother. "Is this how you see it, too, Mom?"

She dropped her gaze to the floorboards. "Haley is pregnant with her second, Nora. She’s managing the bookings, the cleaners, the guests. It’s stressful. Just cooperate. Don't put her in a tough spot."

My father set his coffee mug down on the reception desk. "You make good money in the city, Nora. What’s six hundred dollars to you? Don't come back here and start a fight." He crossed his arms. "Besides, you've been living on your own for years. You’re an independent woman. Paying a little something when you come back to visit isn't the end of the world. If the guests hear you complaining, they'll think you're trying to freeload off your pregnant sister."

I wanted to scream. They had known for a year that my marriage had ended in a quiet, painful divorce. Yet, in their eyes, I was simply out of sight, out of mind—a bottomless wallet that no longer required their emotional support.

Sensing my parents' backing, Ryan puffed out his chest. "Don't take it personally, Nora. The overhead is killer right now. Electricity, housekeeping, organic toiletries—it all adds up. If things are tight for you, you don't have to stay the full three nights."

I could hear the hushed whispers of the guests in the courtyard.

"Oh, she's the owner's sister."

"I mean, paying for an Airbnb even if it's family makes sense."

"Yeah, leaf-peeping season is crazy expensive."

I didn't explain myself. I didn't defend my ownership. I simply held my phone to his reader until the screen flashed a green checkmark. Six hundred dollars.

Ryan’s phone chimed with the notification, and his face broke into a relieved, eager smile.

"See? That wasn't so hard. Clean boundaries make for healthy families."

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and started up the stairs.

"Hey, Nora!" Ryan called up after me. "You're in the Magnolia Room. It's our most requested suite, so just be careful with the soft furnishings, okay? Don't stain the throw pillows."

I froze on the landing. The Magnolia Room was the space I had explicitly designed for myself. The one room my parents promised would never be listed on Airbnb.

I pushed the door open.

My antique writing desk was gone. In its place was a trendy, rattan egg chair draped in a faux-fur throw. A diffuser puffed lavender mist into the air, and on the nightstand sat a crisp, heavy-stock card:

Dear Guest, enjoy your relaxing getaway.