Chapter 3: Notice
The formal notice went out by the method Marjorie preferred: delivered, tracked, impossible to call a misunderstanding.
Savannah opened it at the kitchen island, face moving from confusion to outrage as the language sank in—license to occupy revoked, departure date, personal property, no further use of office, garage, or pantry as claimed territory. Derek swore. Christopher sat down hard on a stool and said my name like a problem.
“You can’t kick us out of Dad’s house,” Savannah said.
“It isn’t Dad’s house,” I answered. “It never was. The trust is in my parents’ line. Your father signed the papers. You have until the date on the letter. If you need a storage unit, I’ll pay for one month as a courtesy. Not because I owe it—because I want your boxes off my porch.”
She turned on Christopher. “You said she didn’t care about technicalities.”
He had no answer that would not indict him. I left them in the kitchen and went to the office, locked the door, and worked until the house quieted into angry murmurs and then into sleep.
The next morning I did not cook for three adults and a sense of entitlement. I made coffee for myself. Savannah stood in the doorway of the kitchen and stared at the empty table.
“Breakfast is at six,” she said, thinner now.
May you like
“Breakfast is at six if you’re in your own apartment,” I said. “Here, you’re packing.”
Derek slammed a cupboard. I photographed the cracked edge later when they weren’t looking. Documentation had become a habit as steady as the rose garden’s watering schedule.
