I surprised my parents for Easter—flowers, chocolate, the works. But what I found shattered me: they were living in the garage.

Five hours from home, I showed up unannounced. Mom always said, “We’re fine, honey,” during our calls. I believed her.

When I unlocked the house, it was unrecognizable—cold gray walls, no family photos. Then I heard Cassandra, my sister, laughing inside with her boyfriend. My heart dropped.

I found my parents in the garage. A cot, a camping stove, a folding chair. My mom wore her winter coat indoors.

They tried to brush it off. “Just while they renovate,” she said.

Nope.

I checked them into a hotel—heat, clean sheets, dignity. Then I got to work.

I’m a contracts manager. I found the deed. The house was in my parents’ names only. Cassandra? Legally a guest.

I met her for lunch, played along. Let her talk. Then I told her: “I recorded everything.” Her face dropped.

Three days later, I came back with an eviction notice—and the police.

“You’re not on the deed,” I said. “Guests don’t take over.”

One week later, my parents were back in their home. Mom’s centerpiece was on the table again. Dad gave me the deed—“This is yours someday. You came back.”

Cassandra? Couch-surfing. Nathan? Gone.

That Easter ended with steaks on the grill, tulips on the table, and laughter in the air.

For the first time in a long time, everything felt right again.

Home was home again.