My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
“An old house is a liability, Emily,” he said, turning to face me with his hands deep in his pockets. “You do not have the cash reserves for a twenty-thousand-dollar repair bill when the winter rains start.”
“I have my salary,” I said.
“A junior accountant’s salary does not cover dry rot,” he said, stepping onto the bottom step of the porch.
He did not look at me as he spoke, his gaze moving slowly along the foundation, measuring the width of the porch with his eyes.
I did not answer him, and by nine o’clock the next morning, I was sitting at a scarred wooden table in the basement of the Riverside County archives.
The air downstairs was cold and smelled of damp plaster and vinegar from the old microfilm rolls.
Martha, the archives clerk, came back from the metal shelving units carrying a gray cardboard box.
“We had this box out yesterday for another researcher,” she said, setting it down with a soft thud that stirred the dust.
“My grandfather, Thomas Carter, owned the Elm Street property,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I wanted to check the historical plat maps.”
