It happens with houses, and it happens with companies, and it happens with families, and it happens with people.

Luca lived in my house, and drove cars I bought, and spent money I earned, and stood beside a woman I had spent decades becoming, and at no point did he do the work of building or earning any of it — and yet, by the simple daily fact of his proximity to all of it, he had constructed, in his own mind, a sense of ownership so total that he could change the locks and feel entirely justified.

This is the specific delusion of the entitled: that occupying a thing is the same as owning it, that being near value is the same as creating it, that the person who lives in the house is indistinguishable from the person who built it.

And it is a delusion that reality corrects, eventually, always, and usually all at once.