No Room For A Third
Language: en
Derek and I had been living together for three years when our apartment gained a permanent squatter. My best friend, Giselle. It started with the occasional sleepover. Before long, her slippers sat permanently by the front door, her plush bathrobe hung in our bathroom, and her oat milk took over the entire middle shelf of the fridge. Our couple’s mug set turned into a set of three. The accent pillows on the sofa multiplied. Even our vacation photos started featuring her in the background. I told myself to let it slide. She was going through a rough patch, after all. Then my mother was…