Chương 2 - The First Casualty of War
By Monday morning, the reality of my new life had set in, but so had my momentum.
I enrolled Gemma in a local, flexible daycare facility near the motel using a portion of the emergency savings I had kept hidden from my family. Then, fueled by two cups of black coffee and a burning sense of cold justice, I called David Vance—a brilliant, shark-like real estate attorney who specialized in property disputes and landlord-tenant evictions.
David answered on the second ring. “Paige? It’s been a while. How are things holding up?”
“They just boiled over, David,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Remember that property trust we set up for Oakridge Estates years ago?”
“Apartment 4B? Your parents' primary residence? Of course. You hold the absolute title deed.”
“I want to exercise my rights as the sole property owner,” I said, leaning against the window sill of the motel room. “My parents and my sister are occupying the premises without a formal, registered lease agreement. In fact, they’re month-to-month squatters as far as the modern registry is concerned, because the old family occupancy pact expired last December.”
There was a short pause on the line, followed by the sound of rustling paper. David let out a low, appreciative whistle.
“Let me get this straight,” David said, amusement coloring his tone. “They threw you out?”
“Mom threw my daughter’s food down the sink, told us to find a room, and Dad put our stroller in the hallway.”
“Family charm at its finest,” David chuckled dryly. “Well, legally speaking, as the sole deed holder, you have every right to issue a formal Notice to Vacate for non-compliance, structural restructuring, or simply reclaiming your property for personal use. Since they have no active lease, state law gives them thirty days to clear out. But we can expedite a formal inspection notice much sooner.”
“Let’s do it all,” I instructed. “Issue a formal thirty-day Notice to Vacate, serve it directly via process server to make sure there are no games played with the mail, and concurrently file a formal property inspection notice for this coming Friday morning.”
“Done,” David agreed. “Consider the paperwork drafted. By tomorrow morning, your parents are going to receive a very rude awakening from the real world.”
While David went to work drafting the legal instruments, I focused on my editing clients, hammering out three urgent manuscript chapters by lunchtime. I was a survivor. I had spent years working two jobs while nursing Gemma, dodging my mother’s toxic criticisms, and quietly building an empire of security behind the scenes.
Tuesday afternoon brought the first ripple of panic from the family front.
My phone buzzed while I was sitting at a corner desk in the public library. It was Chloe. I let it ring out to voicemail.
Ten seconds later, a frantic text message popped up on my screen:
Chloe: Paige, what the hell did you do?! My online banking just said my mortgage transfer failed! The bank is threatening a missed payment fee! Did you change accounts or something?! Call me back right now!
I stared at the screen, typed a single word, and hit send:
No.
Then I blocked her number.
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It felt like peeling off a heavy, suffocating winter coat. For years, I had carried Chloe’s financial weight on my shoulders while she bought designer handbags and mocked my budget-conscious lifestyle. The moment I cut the cord, her entire fragile house of cards began to wobble.
And that was just the appetizer. The main course was scheduled for Friday morning at Oakridge Estates.
