My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
“Of course,” she said, picking up her leather folder. “I’ll call him right now. Thursday at two.”
She turned and walked out, her heels clicking down the hallway. I stood by the stove, my hand resting on the cold handle of the kettle.
The blue flames hissed beneath the metal as the burner ignited, and I waited for the water to boil.
The grandfather clock in Richard Morrison’s waiting room showed exactly three minutes to two when the heavy glass door swung open. My father walked in first, his posture rigid, adjusting the gold strap of his watch with a quick, jerky motion. My mother followed a step behind, her fingers already smoothing the fabric of her grey wool skirt. Ashley came last, carrying the heavy leather folder pressed tightly against her ribs like a shield.
Richard’s receptionist led them straight into the conference room, where Richard and I were already seated. Nobody offered to shake hands, and the only sound was the heavy thud of Charles setting a manila envelope onto the long oak table. He did not sit down immediately, choosing instead to stand over the back of his chair.
