My hard-earned money had paid for the drywall Barbara had just drilled her tacky curtains into. My signature was right next to Ryan’s on every single piece of closing paperwork.
No secret, backdoor deal between a mother and her son could legally override my consent.
Rachel gave me strict instructions not to argue, and to absolutely not touch any of Barbara’s personal property. She told me to take time-stamped photos of every room, document the condition of my own displaced furniture, and then leave the premises for the night.
Barbara glared at Ryan.
“You swore to me this was all handled.”
Ryan looked at me with this wounded expression, acting as if I had humiliated him by keeping receipts.
I calmly walked around snapping photos of the master suite, the en-suite, the kitchen, the garage, and the living room.
I found our cream sectional tightly wrapped in painter’s plastic under a dusty tarp in the garage. One of my beautiful navy chairs now had a deep gouge running down the wooden armrest. Several moving boxes distinctly labeled CASSIE—HOME OFFICE had been ripped open and rifled through.
At 7:42 p.m., I finished my photographic evidence and packed a duffel bag with enough clothes to last me three days.
Ryan trailed behind me down the stairs.
“Lauren, you can’t just kick her out. My mother has nowhere else to live.”
“She owns a two-bedroom condo literally fifteen minutes from here.”
“She sold it.”
I froze with my hand on the doorknob.
“When?”
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