My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
Ashley was standing near the bottom step, her car keys dangling from her index finger. She had her heavy leather folder tucked under her left arm, her fingers gripping the seam tight.
“You always were the difficult one,” Ashley said, her voice quiet in the dark.
“I am just trying to keep what was left to me,” I said.
“You think you are so smart with your spreadsheets and your tax codes,” Ashley whispered, stepping closer until I could smell her heavy perfume. “But you are nothing without this family. You are just a lonely accountant living in a dead man’s house.”
She turned and walked down the driveway toward her car, the heels of her boots clicking against the concrete.
I stood on the porch for a moment, looking at the dark windows of my parents’ house. I reached for the brass doorknob to say goodbye to my mother, but the lock clicked into place from the inside before my hand could touch the metal.
At nine o’clock the next morning, I sat in a green leather chair that smelled of beeswax and old paper.
