Chapter 3 - The Golden Child's Welcome Party
The sky was the color of wet concrete when the unmarked police cruiser pulled up in front of 412 Elmwood Drive on Saturday morning. Behind it was a large commercial moving van I had rented, accompanied by four professional movers I had hired for three hours.
I sat in the passenger seat of my car, watching the house I had called home for three years. In the driveway sat Derek’s massive black pickup truck—the very vehicle my stolen credit score had paid for—hooked to a twenty-foot U-Haul trailer. Boxes were already stacked haphazardly on the front porch.
Deputy Miller, an imposing man with a neatly trimmed beard, stepped out of the patrol car and walked over to my window. He tipped his hat slightly.
“Miss Clark? We’re ready when you are. Our job here is strictly to keep the peace while you retrieve your documented personal property. If anyone interferes, we will step in.”
“Thank you, Deputy,” I said, stepping out into the brisk morning air.
As soon as my boots hit the driveway, the front door flew open. Derek stomped onto the porch, wearing a pair of work gloves and an expression of pure fury. Behind him, Mom emerged, wiping her hands on an apron, her face mottled with red splotches.
“What the hell is this?” Derek barked, pointing an aggressive finger at the moving truck and the two uniformed deputies following behind me. “Naomi, are you out of your mind? You brought cops to Mom and Dad’s house?”
“Good morning, Derek,” I said, not slowing my pace. “I’m here for my belongings.”
Mom hurried down the porch steps, her voice hitting that shrill, manipulative frequency she had used to control me since I was six years old. “Naomi, cancel those movers right now! Look at the neighborhood watching us! The Millers across the street are peeking through their blinds! Do you have any shame at all?”
“You told me to be out by the weekend, Mom,” I said, stopping at the base of the porch. “It’s Saturday. I’m honoring your deadline.”
“You don't need four men and two police officers to take a few suitcases!” she spat, crossing her arms tightly. “I packed your clothes in garbage bags. They’re in the garage. Take them and get out.”
“My clothes aren’t the only things in this house that belong to me,” I replied coolly. I turned to the lead mover. “Gentlemen, the master bedroom furniture on the second floor, the living room sectional, the 65-inch television, the dining room table, and every appliance in the home office. I have the original receipts and serial numbers right here.”
Derek’s jaw dropped. He stepped directly into my path, his chest puffed out. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on a damn minute! That living room sectional stays here! Where the hell are my kids supposed to sit? And the TV? I promised Liam and Maya they’d have a movie night tonight!”
“Then I suggest you take them to an actual movie theater, Derek,” I said, looking him dead in the eyes. “Because I bought that furniture with my salary, and it's coming with me.”
“You selfish little bitch!” Derek snarled, taking a step toward me.
Instantly, Deputy Miller stepped between us, his hand resting calmly on his utility belt. “Step back, sir. Right now. Do not approach her.”
Derek froze, his face turning an ugly shade of purple. “Officer, this is my parents' house! She can't just come in here and strip the place bare!”
“The young lady has presented original invoices, credit card receipts matching the purchases, and serial numbers for every major item she intends to remove,” Deputy Miller said evenly. “If you believe any of those items belong to you or your parents, you are welcome to file a dispute in civil small claims court. But right now, she has lawful right to her property. Step aside.”
Mom looked like she was about to faint. “Naomi, you can't take the dining room set! We bought that together!”
“No, Mom,” I corrected her, pulling a laminated sheet from my folder. “You picked the color. I swiped the card for $2,800. Just like I paid for the washer and dryer currently in the laundry room.”
“You’re taking the washer and dryer?!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “How am I supposed to wash the kids' school clothes? Derek doesn't have time to go to a laundromat!”
“Derek is thirty-six years old,” I said, walking past her into the foyer. “I’m sure he can figure out how quarters work.”
The inside of the house was already a chaotic mess. Derek’s luggage and cardboard boxes cluttered the entryway. Upstairs, I found that Derek had already moved his suitcases into my bedroom suite. My clothes had been yanked from the closet hangers and dumped unceremoniously into black heavy-duty contractor bags piled in the corner. My framed architectural degrees had been taken down from the wall and left on the floor, one of the glass frames cracked.
Seeing my hard-earned degrees treated like trash didn't make me cry. It hardened my resolve until my heart felt like flint.
“Load it all,” I told the movers. “Everything in this room except the built-in closet organizers.”
For the next two hours, the movers worked with mechanical efficiency. They dismantled the solid oak bed frame, wrapped the luxury mattress I had bought myself for my thirtieth birthday, and carried out the designer dresser. Downstairs, they loaded the plush gray sectional, the solid walnut dining table, the eight matching chairs, and my home office setup.
Derek stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a look of murderous resentment, muttering under his breath. Mom sat on a folding chair in the breakfast nook, alternating between weeping loudly and glaring at me with raw hatred.
Dad was nowhere to be seen. He had locked himself in the backyard shed, unable to face the reality of what his cowardice had created.
As the movers brought down the washer and dryer from the utility room, Derek followed them down the hall, his voice dripping with venom. “You think you’re so smart, don't you? You think you’re punishing us? Well, news flash, Naomi: nobody wanted you here anyway! Mom and Dad were miserable having you hover around like some self-righteous hall monitor! We’re going to be a real family now, without you sucking the joy out of every room!”
I stopped at the front door, looking back at him.
“You really believe that, don't you Derek?” I asked quietly.
“I know it,” he sneered. “I’m their son. I gave them grandchildren. You’re just an unmarried thirty-three-year-old spinster who works too much and thinks her paycheck makes her special.”
I almost laughed. The sheer delusion was breathtaking.
“You know, Derek, you’re right about one thing,” I said, stepping onto the porch. “I did work too much. But while I was working, I was paying off the $20,000 credit card debt you hid from your divorce attorney. And I was making the payments on that truck you’re so proud of.”
Derek’s sneer vanished. His eyes widened in sudden, sharp alarm. “What... what are you talking about?”
From behind him, Mom let out a strangled gasp. “Naomi, shut your mouth!”
“Oh, did you not tell him, Mom?” I turned to Eleanor, whose face was completely devoid of color. “Did you not tell him where the money came from when you miraculously saved his credit last year? You told him it was Dad’s retirement fund, didn't you?”
Derek looked back and forth between us, his cocky posture crumbling into confusion. “Mom? What is she talking about?”
“Ask her about the $65,000 equity line, Derek,” I said, opening the door of my car. “Ask her whose signature she forged to get it. And while you're asking, you might want to check the mail on Monday. Sophie Vance sent a formal letter to this address. You have thirty days to find sixty-five grand to take my name off that note, or the sheriff won't just be standing on the porch watching movers. He’ll be serving an eviction and an arrest warrant.”
May you like
I shut my car door, locked it, and pulled out of the driveway without looking back once. In my rearview mirror, I could see Derek furiously gesturing at our mother on the front lawn, while Eleanor buried her face in her apron, sobbing into the chilly morning air.
***
