I had no idea when I woke up that morning in my parents’ house in Columbus, Ohio, slipped into my blue scrub top, and hurried to the hospital for my shift. I worked as a respiratory therapist, and that week had been relentless—double shifts, too many patients, barely any sleep. By the time I got home after nine that night, my feet ached, my head throbbed, and I had exactly one plan: shower, heat up leftovers, and collapse into bed.
Instead, I saw my suitcase placed by the front door.
At first, I assumed my mother had been tidying and moved it from the hallway closet.
Then I realized it was packed. My clothes were neatly folded inside. My laptop charger had been shoved into a side pocket.
My toiletries were sealed in a plastic bag. This wasn’t packing. It was eviction.
