My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
Richard Morrison, a sixty-two-year-old attorney with a gravelly voice, listened to me without interrupting. He sat behind a mahogany desk that had small nicks along the edge, his thumb rubbing the side of a yellow legal pad.
“My sister was looking through my grandfather’s desk,” I said, keeping my hands flat on my knees. “My father wants me to sign the house over to a family partnership. He locked me out of their house last night.”
Richard slowly turned a fountain pen in his fingers.
“Who currently holds the grant deed?” he asked.
“I do,” I said. “It is in my deposit box at the Elm Street branch.”
Richard tapped the end of his pen three times against his pad. The rhythm was steady, like a small, wooden clock.
“They cannot force you to sign a partnership agreement,” Richard said. “But as long as the property remains in your name, they will keep pushing. If they wear you down, or if they find another way, you stand to lose everything Thomas left you.”
“What other way is there?” I asked.
