At midnight my sister tried to bring her three children into my apartment with my mother’s key, but when she yelled at me “family helps each other”, I had already changed the lock and was waiting for her downstairs to put a stop to it.

I watched the typing bubbles appear and disappear several times as my mother struggled to find an excuse that wouldn’t sound like a complete betrayal of my privacy.

“Just let them in for the night, Leona, and please try not to make a situation that is already stressful even more difficult for everyone involved,” she finally wrote.

I let out a short and bitter laugh that echoed through the empty hallway of my home because the irony of her statement was almost too much to handle.

“Difficult for whom exactly, Mom?”

Twenty minutes later, the security team confirmed that my electronic lock had been successfully wiped of all previous permissions and that the old metal key was now useless.

I thanked the guard for his quick work and tied my hair back into a tight bun before grabbing my handbag and heading down to the lobby to meet the storm head-on.

I refused to cower in my own living room while my family attempted to invade my personal space as if I were nothing more than a convenient resource for them to exploit.

At exactly seven minutes before one in the morning, the heavy glass doors of the main entrance swung open to admit the chaos I had been expecting.