My parents kept breaking into my apartment, so I moved without telling them and let them panic.

The throw pillows were wrong. I stood in my doorway, keys still in hand, staring at my couch. The navy blue pillow that I always kept on the left was now on the right. The cream one with tassels sat where the navy should be.

Someone had been in my apartment.

My name is Emma and I’m 26 years old. When I signed the lease on my first apartment in downtown Portland three months earlier, I thought I’d finally achieved independence, my own space, my own rules. No more living under my parents’ roof, following their schedules, answering their endless questions about where I was going and when I’d be back.

My mother, Linda, had asked for a spare key on move-in day. Just for emergencies, sweetheart, she’d said, tucking a strand of her highlighted blonde hair behind her ear. What if there’s a fire? What if you get hurt and we need to check on you?

It seemed reasonable at the time. Parents worry. That’s what they do. So, I handed over the spare key, watched her clip it onto her keychain next to the little photo charm of me from high school, and thought nothing of it.

But now, standing in my living room at 6:30 on a Wednesday evening, I knew exactly what had happened. The rearranged pillows weren’t the only evidence.

Three Tupperware containers sat on my kitchen counter. Leftovers I definitely hadn’t made. Lasagna, potato salad, chocolate chip cookies.

My phone buzzed. A text from mom.

Hope you found the food.
Stop by to drop it off. Your place is coming together nicely, though. You really should add more color to that living room. Love you.

I called her immediately.

Emma, did you get my text? Her voice was bright, cheerful, completely oblivious to the problem.

Mom, you can’t just let yourself into my apartment.

I brought you dinner. You’ve been working so hard at that marketing firm, and I know you don’t have time to cook proper meals.

That’s not the point. You need to call first. You need to ask permission.

She laughed. Actually laughed.

Emma, honey, you’re my daughter. I don’t need an appointment to see you. I was in the neighborhood. I had extra food and I used the key. That’s what the key is for.

The key is for emergencies.

Well, you not eating properly is an emergency to me. Now, did you try the lasagna yet? I used that recipe from Aunt Susan, the one with the Italian sausage.

I pressed my fingers to my temples, feeling a headache forming.

Mom, I’m serious. Next time, call first.

All right. All right. Don’t be so sensitive. I’ll talk to you later, sweetie.

She hung up before I could respond.

I stood there in my kitchen, holding my phone, telling myself I was overreacting. She was just being a mom. An overbearing mom, sure. But she meant well. The food was actually pretty good and it saved me from ordering takeout again.

I should have trusted my instincts. I should have asked for that key back right then because two weeks later things got worse.

The shampoo bottle didn’t belong to me.

I’d stumbled into my bathroom on a Saturday morning, barely awake, ready to take a shower before meeting my friend Megan for brunch. That’s when I saw it.

A purple bottle of salon brand shampoo sitting on the shelf in my shower.

Not my brand, not my color, not mine.

I picked it up, reading the label. Moisture renewal formula, $90 a bottle. My sister Brittany’s favorite.

My 23-year-old sister who lived an hour away in Salem, working as a dental hygienist and constantly complaining about how expensive her apartment was. My sister, who had apparently spent the night in my apartment without asking.

I was still standing there holding the shampoo bottle like evidence at a crime scene when my phone rang.

Mom, good morning, sweetheart. Did Brittany remember to leave you a thank you note?

A thank you note for what?

For letting her crash at your place last night. She had a date in Portland and didn’t want to drive home late. I told her she could use your apartment since you’re always at work anyway.

The casual way she said it, like this was completely normal, completely acceptable, made my blood pressure spike.

You gave Brittany access to my apartment without asking me.

Emma, she’s your sister. You would have said yes anyway.

That’s not the point, Mom. This is my home.

Oh, don’t be so dramatic. She slept on your couch, used your shower, and was gone by 7:00 a.m. You weren’t even there. What’s the big deal?

The big deal is that I didn’t know about it. What if I’d come home late and found a stranger in my apartment?

She’s not a stranger. She’s your sister.

That’s not—

I took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

Mom, you cannot give people access to my apartment. I don’t care if it’s Brittany or Dad or the Pope. This is my space, my private space.

You’re being selfish.

The word hit me like a slap.

Excuse me?

Your sister needed help and you’re throwing a tantrum about her using your shower. Family helps family, Emma.

I don’t know what’s gotten into you since you moved out, but this attitude needs to stop.

She hung up.

I sat down on the edge of my bathtub, still holding Brittany’s expensive shampoo, feeling like I was going crazy. Was I being selfish? Was I overreacting?

These were my parents, my sister. They weren’t strangers. They weren’t dangerous.

But the knot in my stomach told me something was very wrong.

I called Brittany.

Hey, Em. Did you get Mom’s message?

Did you stay at my apartment last night?

Yeah. Thank you so much. I had dinner with this guy from Tinder and it ran late and I was too tired to drive all the way back to Salem. Mom said it was cool if I crashed at your place.

Brittany, you need to ask me, not mom.

But it’s mom. She has a key. I figured she cleared it with you.

She didn’t.

There was a pause.

Oh. I mean, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was a big deal. You weren’t even home.

That phrase again. You weren’t even home. As if that made it okay.

Just next time text me first, please.

Sure. Yeah. Sorry, Em.

But I could hear it in her voice. She didn’t really understand why I was upset. None of them did.

That afternoon, I drove to my parents’ house in the suburbs, the same house I’d grown up in with the red front door and the garden gnomes mom collected.

Dad was in the garage working on his Chevy truck.

Emma, what a nice surprise.

He wiped his hands on a rag, smiling. My father, David, was 58 with gray hair and the kind of weathered face that came from 30 years of working construction.

I need to talk to you and mom.

His smile faded.

Everything okay?

No, everything’s not okay.

We went inside.

Mom was in the kitchen preparing her famous pot roast. The house smelled like onions and beef and childhood Sunday dinners.

Emma, stay for dinner.

I can’t. I need my key back.

Mom’s wooden spoon clattered into the pot.

She turned to face me, her expression cycling through confusion, hurt, and then anger in the span of three seconds.

Your key?

The spare key I gave you, I need it back.

Why on earth would you need it back?

Dad had followed me into the kitchen, closing the garage door behind him. I could feel both of them staring at me.

And suddenly, I was twelve years old again, being interrogated about a bad grade or a missed curfew.

But I wasn’t twelve. I was twenty-six. And this was my life.

Because you’re using it to enter my apartment without permission. You let yourself in to drop off food. You gave Brittany access to stay over without asking me. That key was for emergencies only.

Mom’s face flushed red.

Bringing my daughter food is an emergency. Making sure you’re taken care of is an emergency.

You work yourself to death at that job. You barely eat. You never call.

I call you three times a week.

And now you want to cut us out completely after everything we’ve done for you.

I’m not cutting you out. I’m asking you to respect my boundaries.

Boundaries?

She said the word like it tasted bad.

That’s what they teach you at that company, isn’t it? All those corporate buzzwords. Boundaries. Personal space. As if your own mother is some kind of threat.

Linda. Dad’s voice was quiet but firm.

She ignored him.

I raised you. I fed you. Clothed you. Paid for your college. And now you’re standing in my kitchen accusing me of what exactly? Being a good mother.

You’re breaking into my apartment.

It’s not breaking in when I have a key.

I gave you that key for emergencies, not for surprise visits, not for letting other people stay over.

She grabbed a dish towel, twisting it in her hands. Tears welled up in her eyes. The same tears that had gotten her out of speeding tickets, gotten me out of punishment when dad was angry, gotten her way in every family argument for as long as I could remember.

I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. I’m your mother. I worry about you every single day. You’re out there all alone in that apartment and God forbid something happens and we can’t get to you.

Nothing’s going to happen to me.

You don’t know that. What if there’s a fire? What if you fall in the shower? What if someone breaks in?

Then I’ll call 911 like a normal person.

Dad stepped between us.

Emma, I think you’re being paranoid.

The words stung more coming from him.

Dad was the reasonable one.

I’m not paranoid. I’m asking for basic respect.

He crossed his arms.

We’re not giving the key back.

The room went silent except for the bubbling pot roast.

What?

You heard me. We’re not giving it back. We’re your parents, Emma. This is ridiculous.

Then I’ll change my locks.

Mom gasped.

You wouldn’t dare.

Watch me.

I left without another word.

Drove straight back to my apartment and Googled locksmiths. Found one with same-day service.

By 8:00 p.m. that night, I had brand new deadbolts on both my front door and my sliding balcony door. I kept all three keys.

For two weeks, I felt victorious. I’d drawn a line. I’d stood up for myself. My apartment was mine again.

Then I came home from work on a Thursday and found mom sitting on my couch.

My briefcase slipped from my hand, hitting the floor with a thud that echoed through my apartment.

Mom sat on my couch, my couch, with a cup of tea on the coffee table and a magazine open in her lap like she lived here.

How did you get in here?

She looked up, smiled, and held up a shiny new key.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Where did you get that?

I called your landlord. Nice man, Mr. Collins. I explained that I was your mother and needed access in case of emergencies. He understood completely, gave me a copy yesterday.

The room tilted.

I grabbed the back of my armchair to steady myself.

You went behind my back to my landlord.

Don’t be so dramatic, Emma. I’m your mother. I have every right to check on you.

Get out.

Excuse me?

Get out now.

She stood up slowly, collecting her purse with deliberate martyred movements.

I cannot believe the way you’re speaking to me.

You manipulated my landlord into giving you unauthorized access to my apartment. That’s not love. That’s control.

It’s motherhood.

When you have children of your own, you’ll understand.

There’s a difference between worrying and stalking.

I’ll be keeping this key for emergencies.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

I stood there shaking.

There was only one solution.

I had to disappear.

The new apartment building stood on the northwest side of Portland in the Pearl District.

Twenty stories of glass and steel with a doorman named Ethan who took his job very seriously.

The lease required a credit check, first and last month’s rent, and a hefty security deposit.

It cost $400 more per month than my current place.

I signed the papers and told absolutely no one.

I called two friends I trusted, Megan and Rachel.

They didn’t know my parents.

“You’re really not going to tell them?” Megan asked.

“They broke in through my window,” I said.

Yes, it’s necessary.

By 3:00 p.m., my apartment was empty.

At 5:30, I locked the door and dropped my keys in Mr. Collins’ mailbox.

Then I stopped responding.

I let them panic.

Because I’m not their little girl anymore.

I’m Emma, 26 years old, with my own apartment that has a doorman and locks that only I have keys to.