“My son handled the paperwork.”
“Then he may provide it through the appropriate process. Until that happens, you need to step into the hallway.”
“I will not be humiliated in front of strangers.”
Anita looked toward the open apartment.
“You entered another resident’s home without verified permission. The hallway is currently the least embarrassing available option.”
One of the security employees coughed into his hand to hide a smile.
Lorraine’s face turned crimson.
“I am his mother.”
Anita answered without blinking.
“Mrs. Whitmore, your relationship to a man who does not own this property is irrelevant.”
Perfect.
Lorraine tried indignation first.
Then outrage.
Then tears.
When none of those worked, she called Daniel.
He answered on speaker.
“Mom?”
“They’re trying to throw me out.”
“What? Who is?”
“Your wife brought security.”
There was a pause.
Then Daniel’s voice came through sharper.
“Claire, stop this.”
I stepped closer to the phone.
“I’m standing outside my apartment.”
“My mother has permission to be there.”
“From whom?”
“From me.”
“You do not own it.”
“We’re married.”
“Marriage did not rewrite the deed.”
“Claire, don’t make a public scene.”
I looked at Lorraine in her robe, at the security employees, and at two neighbors now watching from down the corridor.
“I didn’t create the scene.”
Daniel lowered his voice.
“Let her stay tonight. We’ll talk when I get home.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
The certainty in my voice seemed to unsettle him more than anger would have.
Anita held out her hand toward Lorraine.
“Your purse, phone, and personal medication may leave with you now. Additional belongings can be collected later under supervision.”
Lorraine stared at the hallway as though exile had begun.
“You’ll regret this,” she said.
“Get in line,” I replied.
They escorted her out while she shouted that Daniel would fix everything and that I had no idea what papers had already been signed.
That phrase stayed with me.
No idea what papers had already been signed.
After the elevator doors closed, Anita helped me inspect the apartment.
Lorraine had not merely unpacked.
She had settled in.
Her cosmetics covered my bathroom counter. Her dresses occupied half my closet. She had moved my clothes into storage bags and stacked them in the guest room. My books had been removed from the living-room shelves and replaced by porcelain angels and framed family photographs that did not include me.
A new cable account had been activated.
My mail had been opened.
The framed photograph of my grandmother that had stood beside her mug was face down inside a drawer.