I Came Home From A 6-month Trip To Find A Stranger In My Kitchen Wearing My Clothes. He Claims He’s Family, But My Granddaughter Is Crying In The Basement. What Should I Do?
The Vanished Gnome and the Strange House
The garden gnome was gone. I stood at the curb, my suitcase heavy in my hand, staring at the empty spot by the mailbox where that ridiculous ceramic gnome had stood for 12 years.
My son David always hated it, called it tacky, but his daughter Emma loved that thing and had named it Gerald when she was 5 years old. The lawn looked different too, overgrown in patches with a blue recycling bin tipped over near the garage.
Strange, David was meticulous about the yard. I’d been gone for six months, six glorious months touring Europe with my sister Carol after my husband passed.
Florence, Paris, Vienna—we’d earned it, I thought. I’d raised my boys, buried my husband, and finally taken time for myself.
David had insisted I go.
“Mom, you’ve been taking care of everyone else your whole life. Go. Emma and I will be fine.”
I pulled my phone from my purse, still no response to my text from the airport three hours ago.
“Landed early, on my way home. Can’t wait to see you both.”
The message showed as read, but there was no reply. The house key felt foreign in my hand as I climbed the porch steps.
The paint on the front door was chipped near the handle, something David would never have let happen. I turned the key and pushed.
The smell hit me first: cigarette smoke, heavy and stale. David didn’t smoke, never had.
“Hello?”
My voice echoed through the entryway. The hardwood floors that I’d spent 30 years maintaining looked scuffed and tracked with mud.
A men’s jacket I didn’t recognize hung on the coat rack. It was not David’s style, too flashy with a logo I couldn’t place.
I heard footsteps upstairs, fast and hurried.
“David?”
I called out louder this time.
“Emma?”
Confrontation at the Top of the Stairs
A woman appeared at the top of the stairs, young, maybe 35, wearing athletic clothes and holding a coffee mug. My coffee mug—the one Emma had painted for me in art class for Mother’s Day 2019 in messy blue letters.
“Who are you?”
I asked. She stared at me, eyes wide.
“Who am I? Who are you? How did you get in here?”
My heart started pounding.
“I live here. This is my house. Where’s my son? Where’s Emma?”
The woman’s face shifted from shock to something else: annoyance.
“Rick!”
She yelled over her shoulder.
“Rick, there’s someone here!”
A man emerged from what used to be David’s bedroom. He was tall, in his late 30s, wearing sweatpants and a tank top.
He had a beer in his hand at 11:00 in the morning.
“What’s going on, Tiffany?”
He asked, then saw me.
“Oh, you must be Evelyn.”
The way he said my name was casual, like we’d met before, like he had any right to be in my house.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are,”
I said, keeping my voice steady despite the panic rising in my chest.
“I need you to tell me where my son is. Where’s David, and where is my granddaughter?”
Rick descended the stairs slowly and deliberately.
“David’s not here anymore.”
“What do you mean he’s not here? Where did he go?”
“He left about four months ago.”
Four months. I’d been sending emails to David weekly—short messages and photos from my trip.
He’d responded to every single one.
“Having a great time, Mom. Don’t worry about us.”
“He wouldn’t just leave,”
I said.
“Not without telling me, and he certainly wouldn’t leave Emma.”
Tiffany crossed her arms.
“Well, he did. Took off with some woman he met, just packed up and left Emma here to deal with everything.”
My granddaughter was 16 years old.
“Where is Emma?”
Rick gestured vaguely toward the back of the house.
“Around. Look, I’m David’s brother. I have every right to be here.”
David didn’t have a brother named Rick. He had one brother, Kevin, and Kevin lived in Seattle with his wife and two kids.
I’d gotten Christmas cards from them for 15 years.
“Unless you’re Rick,”
I said slowly,
“Kevin’s younger brother, the one who—”
“The one who what?”
Rick’s voice hardened.
“The one who made some mistakes when he was younger? Yeah, that’s me. But I’ve changed, turned my life around, and when my nephew abandoned his daughter, I stepped up.”
The Secret in the Basement
The story wasn’t adding up. I pulled out my phone and called David’s number; it went straight to voicemail.
I tried again, and it was the same thing.
“You won’t reach him,”
