The morning of the eviction, I woke before the alarm. I made coffee so strong it could dissolve a spoon. Jonathan had emailed the schedule: 10:00 a.m. I didn’t want Hannah to see this. When I pulled onto the street, my stomach twisted. Three cars in the driveway. Brittany’s, her husband Ryan’s, Mom’s. They were all home for the show.
Two deputies were already at the door. I stayed near the sidewalk, pretending to scroll through my phone. From inside came sharp voices. The door flew open. Mom appeared, fury perfected. She pointed at me across the yard. “She’s the one!” she yelled. “She forged everything!” The deputy didn’t even look at me. “Ma’am, we have a court order.”
Brittany appeared behind her, phone up like she was live-streaming. “This is abuse! You can’t throw out a widow!” Ryan muttered something about lawyers. The deputy read the order anyway, calm and steady. He explained they had 15 minutes to collect essential items and leave.
“Fifteen minutes?” Mom laughed, a brittle sound. “You can’t be serious.” He was. They started pacing, arguing, knocking things over. Brittany cried harder. Ryan slammed a door. Mom kept repeating, “This is my home,” like repetition could make it true.
I just stood there. When the first deputy stepped aside, Brittany stormed out with clothes and two framed pictures—one of her kids, one of Dad. Ryan followed, glaring at me. Mom was last. She paused on the threshold, her eyes glassy with something between hate and disbelief. “I hope you’re proud,” she said.
I wasn’t. I was tired. The deputies closed the door behind her. Simple and final. One deputy handed me the keys. “Ma’am,” he said, “it’s yours now.” Three words, heavier than I expected.
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