Of my mom posting vague quotes on Facebook like, “Sometimes the ones you love the most hurt you the worst.”
All while I waited patiently.
The eviction process had already been triggered the moment I sent that document.
But formal proceedings in our county take time, and the house was still technically occupied.
I didn’t want to go scorched earth.
Not yet.
I wanted them to see the walls close in slowly.
On the eighth day, I went back.
Not to confront them.
Not to argue.
Just to drop off one envelope.
I wore a hoodie, sunglasses, kept my car idling.
I walked up to the porch where I used to shovel snow as a kid, where my dad used to sit with a beer and wave to neighbors.
I taped the envelope to the door and left without knocking.
Inside the envelope was one page, a legal notice.
Not from a lawyer, but from me, the sole property owner, revoking their right to stay on the premises.
I attached a highlighted copy of the deed.
I kept it clean.
No insults.
No jabs.
Just facts.
By the time I got home, the group chat, which I’d muted but still occasionally checked, was on fire.
Kelsey: “This is a joke, right? You bought the house?”
Mom: “How could you not tell us?”
Dad: “If this is real, you better fix it before I do something I regret.”
Then Kelsey again.
“You think this is going to make you look good? You look like a psychopath.”
I didn’t respond.
I didn’t need to.
That weekend, I got a text from our old neighbor, Mr. Harland.
Sweet guy.
Used to bring us figs from his backyard.
“Heard your folks are getting booted. About time, honestly. Hope you’re okay, kid.”
That hit harder than I expected.
It wasn’t that I wanted them homeless.
I didn’t.
Despite everything, I wasn’t trying to ruin them.
I just needed them to understand, to finally feel even a fraction of the weight I’d carried for years.
But something about hearing it from someone else, someone who’d seen it all from the outside, made it real.
And things were starting to snowball.