My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
I picked up the bank document, my eyes tracing the lines of text until they landed on the bottom of the page.
My father’s signature was written in his sharp, angular cursive, the blue ink of the notary stamp sitting right next to it, confirming the freeze on everything I had left.
The sun was barely over the orange groves when I pulled up to Third Street the next morning. Richard Morrison was already at his desk, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a yellow legal pad covered in his small, precise handwriting sitting before him. He did not look surprised to see the frozen bank statement I laid on his green blotter.
He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notepad, the sharp plastic click sounding six times before he spoke. His gravelly voice was even slower than usual.
“Your father used the old joint tenancy signature card from your college years to secure this freeze,” Richard said, sliding the bank document closer to his desk lamp. “Technically, the bank has to honor his request until we file a formal counter-petition to prove the funds were entirely your deposit.”
