My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
I looked at the signature at the bottom of the page, the sharp, angular cursive of my father’s name written in dark blue ink. He had used the exact same pen he used to sign the eviction notice.
I left the bank and walked out to my car, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the asphalt parking lot. I had exactly three hundred and forty dollars in my checking account at a separate bank, which was not nearly enough to cover my monthly expenses.
I drove to the Oak Street apartments at five o’clock to meet with Mr. Henderson, the landlord who managed the small studio unit I used for my tax preparation business. The small radiator in the lobby corner hummed with a low, metallic vibration as I walked in.
Mr. Henderson was sitting behind the glass partition, a yellow pencil tucked behind his ear as he sorted through a stack of tenant files.
“I got your message about the six-month lease extension, Emily,” he said, sliding the glass window open.
“Yes,” I said. “I brought the signed renewal form.”
