My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
I watched him carry the heavy tripod toward his truck parked under the streetlamp. The white letters on the side of his truck read Southern California Land Surveys.
He climbed into the cab, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb, leaving the street completely silent.
The next evening, the driveway of the house on Oak Avenue was crowded with three cars. I parked my small sedan behind my father’s sedan, leaving exactly four feet of clearance from the curb. The air carried the dry heat of a Riverside autumn, holding the scent of dust and exhaust.
My mother, Helen, had set the dining room table with the good linen placemats. She did not look up from her plate when I sat down in the empty chair across from my sister.
Ashley, my older sister, had a heavy leather folder resting on the sideboard behind her. She did not offer to pass the salad. Instead, she leaned forward, her silver bracelets clinking against the rim of her water glass.
