“You still let her treat me like a servant,” I said. “You still agreed to push me out. House or no house.”
He had no answer for that.
On Eviction Day, he wasn’t there.
Tracy, however, was ready for a show.
She called a “family meeting” that morning. Her kids shuffled into the living room behind her. She’d dressed for the occasion in a cream suit with the pattern of real Chanel but the stitching of something bought off a sketchy Instagram ad.
She stood in front of the fireplace—the same fireplace where my grandparents used to hang our stockings at Christmas—and launched into a speech.
“After much reflection,” she began, “I’ve decided to take the high road. This environment has become too toxic. I refuse to subject myself or my children to it any longer. So we are choosing to leave this house.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You mean, complying with the legal eviction?” I asked.
She ignored me.
“We’re moving to Florida,” she announced. “Your father and I just bought a beautiful house in Tampa. Much nicer than this old place.”
Sure, Jan.
I’d seen the GoFundMe she’d set up: “Family in Crisis Needs Housing.” It had forty-three dollars in it. Thirty of which came from her MLM upline.
While she waxed poetic about palm trees and fresh starts and “choosing joy,” there was a knock at the door.
The movers.
The ones I had hired.
“Ma’am?” the lead guy—Mike, according to his shirt—said, stepping into the living room. “We’re here to load the items designated in the order.”
Tracy froze mid-sentence.
“I’m not ready,” she snapped. “You’ll have to come back.”
“Sorry,” Mike said. “Court order says today. We pack what’s on the list, put it in storage. If you have an issue, you can take it up with the court.”
She sputtered.
“This is ridiculous! You can’t just—”
He walked away.
Movers started carrying in boxes. Dollies squeaked. Tape ripped.
Tracy lost it.
She ran around the house grabbing random items, declaring them “family heirlooms.”
Including:
A ceramic bowl my mom had made in a pottery class, which Tracy had once tried to throw away because it “didn’t match her aesthetic.”
The Keurig I’d bought.
Several towels.
Yes. Towels.
The movers were professional. If it was on the “hers” list we’d worked out with my lawyer—her clothes, her personal items, the furniture she’d actually paid for—they packed it carefully. If it wasn’t, they left it.
I leaned against the banister and watched.