At sixty-two years old, I never imagined I’d have to ask strangers to leave my own house.

I’d just gotten back from two weeks in Florida with my sister. It was Sunday morning, a little after eight. I’d taken the red-eye from Tampa, and I’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours. My back hurt. My eyes burned. I’d spent the whole cab ride from the airport thinking about three things.

A hot shower. A fresh cup of coffee. And my own bed.

I paid the driver. I rolled my suitcase up the front walk. I put my key in the lock, the way I’d done ten thousand times in twenty-eight years.

I opened the front door.

And I nearly tripped over a pair of men’s shoes.

Big ones. Brown leather loafers, size twelve at least. Kicked off right in the middle of my front hall.

I stood there in the doorway and stared at them.

Then I looked up.

Suitcases lined my staircase. Four, five, six of them. One on every step, like somebody had been climbing up and gotten tired halfway.

A child’s pink jacket was hanging on the old wooden coat rack by the door. My grandfather’s coat rack. The one he carved by hand in 1931. The one nobody hangs anything on except my good winter coat and Robert’s old fishing hat, which I’ve never been able to move.

The fishing hat was on the floor.

Then I looked into the living room.

There were people sleeping on my floor.

Air mattresses. Wall to wall. The coffee table had been pushed into the corner. The armchairs had been shoved against the bookshelves. And in every inch of open space, there were blue and gray air mattresses, and on every air mattress, there were people.

I counted. I don’t know why. My brain just started counting.

Fifteen.

Fifteen strangers. Asleep. Snoring. Somebody had a sleep mask on. A teenage boy was curled up on my couch with his sneakers still on. A toddler was sprawled sideways across a mattress next to a woman with curlers in her hair.

And one woman, an older woman with short reddish hair, was wrapped up in a blue blanket.

My blue blanket.

The soft wool one my husband, Robert, gave me for our thirtieth anniversary. The one I keep folded over the back of my reading chair. The one I’ve never once let anybody else use. The one that still, if I put my face in it, smells a little bit like him.

She was drooling on it.

For several seconds, I couldn’t move.

I just stood there in my own front doorway, holding the handle of my suitcase, with my mouth open.

Then I backed out onto the porch. I closed the door very quietly. I pulled out my phone.

I called my daughter.

Emily answered on the fourth ring. She sounded sleepy.

“Mom? Are you back?”

“Emily,” I said. My voice came out very calm. Strangely calm. “Why are there people sleeping in my house?”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Mom. Relax! They’re just David’s relatives. His mom needed somewhere to host the family reunion. Their place was too small.”

“The family reunion.”