Chapter 6 - The Eviction Notice
The chaos that erupted in the dining room over the next ten minutes was something straight out of a tragedy-turned-farce.
My mother lost all remaining composure, screaming hysterically that she was going to sue everyone in the county, clawing at the table linens, and throwing wine glasses against the wall. Kelsey was down on her hands and knees frantically trying to rescue her shattered iPhone, crying about her social media videos being deleted.
My father tried to play the patriarch card, stepping toward me with a raised finger. “You can’t just throw us out on Christmas Day! There are tenant eviction laws! You have to give us thirty days!”
Deputy Miller stepped squarely between my father and me, resting his hand firmly on his baton holster.
“Mr. Frell,” the deputy said in a low, gravelly warning tone, “these documents aren't standard residential leases. This is an immediate writ of possession executed under trust probate law. You are currently trespassing on private property belonging to Miss Frell. If you don't begin gathering your personal belongings right now, I will personally assist you out the front door in handcuffs.”
Marcus Vance opened his briefcase again, pulling out a detailed inventory checklist and handing it to my father.
“You have exactly forty-eight hours to remove your personal clothing, furniture, and vehicles from the premises,” Marcus stated professionally. “Any damage to the fixtures, appliances, or structure of this house during your move-out will result in immediate civil asset seizure of your personal bank accounts to cover the repair costs.”
My mother stopped screaming. She looked around the dining room—at the expensive china she had bragged about to her country club friends, at the high-end furniture she had treated like her royal estate—and realized the terrifying truth.
They were homeless.
Not because they were poor, but because every single asset they owned was tied up in debts, leased cars, and high-interest credit lines sustained by the illusion that they were going to inherit Grandpa’s house and bank accounts.
They had spent years spending money they didn't have, banking entirely on the day Grandpa died so they could sell 818 Cherry Bend Road and cash out.
And now, the girl they had treated like trash for twenty-five years held the mortgage, the deed, and the keys.
“Amber... please,” my mother sobbed, suddenly dropping to her knees on the hardwood floor, grabbing at the hem of my jeans. “Please... don't do this to your mother. We made mistakes, but we’re family! Where are we supposed to go?”
I looked down at her—at the woman who had burned my Christmas stocking just nine hours earlier, telling me I had ruined every holiday of her life.
May you like
I gently stepped out of her grasp, walking backward toward the hallway.
“You can go wherever you want,” I said evenly. “Just make sure you’re out by tomorrow afternoon. Because the locks are getting changed at noon.”
