But this time, when I pulled up to the front gate, I froze.
The gate, which I always kept locked, was standing wide open.
From inside the estate came the muffled thud of music cranked to full volume and the raucous sound of laughter.
I rushed forward and pushed through the front door.
What I saw stopped me cold.
The living room was destroyed.
Empty liquor bottles, snack wrappers, fruit peels, sunflower-seed shells, and cigarette butts littered the coffee table, the couches, the floor. The leather sofa, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, was pocked with burn marks where cigarettes had been ground into it, each one a charred black crater. My mother's beloved Persian rug was covered in footprints and stained with splatters of red wine. The keepsakes that had hung on the walls were either pulled down and used as photo props or smashed to pieces in the corners.
My fists clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms.
This was the home my parents had lived in for half their lives. Every piece of furniture, every single item on display, they had chosen with care. I normally tiptoed through these rooms, terrified of bumping into anything, of disturbing even a single object.