My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
“I know,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.
I reached down, pretending to look for a napkin, and gently nudged the green folder an inch to the left. The motion revealed the top three inches of the document, including the words printed in bold, capital letters: QUITCLAIM DEED.
Below the title, the lines for the transferor and transferee were completely blank, waiting only for my signature to surrender my rights to the craftsman house on Elm Street.
My mother turned around, holding a clean kitchen towel, her face still bright with the warm, maternal smile she had worn all afternoon.
“Are you ready for another slice of pie, dear?” she asked.
I looked from her smiling face down to the edge of the green recipe folder, where the blank document remained hidden from her view but perfectly clear to mine.
Ashley did not wait for me to answer her knock. She used her old spare key, the brass one that Grandfather had given her when she graduated from college, and let herself into the kitchen of the craftsman house with a sharp click of her heels against the hardwood floor.
