“What is this? What are you doing? You’re having your own brother served with legal papers.”
I told her I had retained counsel and that all future communications about the matter should go through Francis.
“This is insane,” my mother said. “This is completely insane. He is your brother.”
“He painted my walls without permission and threw out my furniture. He’s been living in my house for months without my consent. Those things are insane, too, and I don’t recall you calling me about them.”
She hung up.
My brother called twice. I let both go to voicemail.
His first message was consiliatory, a little sheepish, a lot focused on the difficulty of his situation. The second message was less consiliatory. He used the word vindictive twice.
I forwarded both to Francis.
The demand letter gave my brother 14 days to vacate. He did not vacate.
Instead, he hired an attorney of his own, a man I’ll call the unfortunate mediator, cuz that is the role he spent the next few weeks uncomfortably occupying.
He called Francis. He explained that my brother’s financial situation was fragile, that moving the children again would cause disruption, that perhaps a more compassionate arrangement could be worked out, a temporary lease or a grace period.
Francis called me after the conversation and gave me a summary in her characteristically efficient way.
Then she said, “What do you want to do?”
“File for the eviction order,” I said.
“Good,” she said.
The eviction filing required us to document the condition of the property. This was where it got complicated because I could not simply walk into my own house and start taking photographs without things becoming hostile.