Three days later, I returned with a printed removal notice—and a police escort.
I pulled up to the house with a police escort and walked straight to the front door. Nathan opened it, wearing my dad’s robe and holding a mug like he owned the place.
He smirked. “You lost, sweetheart?”
I listened the notice. “Nope. But you’re about to be.”
Cassandra stepped into view just behind him, her smile fading the second she saw what I was holding.
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
“Oh, I’m very serious.”
“You’re not on the deed,” I cut in. “You’re not on the lease. You’re a guest. And guests don’t get to control.”
Nathan let out a laugh, haughty. “You can’t remove family.”
That’s when the officer stepped forward and said, “Actually, you’ve been served. I recommend you read the paperwork.”
They both went quiet.
That afternoon, my dad pulled me aside and handed me a folder. Inside was the house deed.
“If anything ever happens to us,” he said, “this is yours. You were the one who came back.”
I hugged him, and for a while neither of us said anything. We didn’t need to.
As for Cassandra?
She’s homeless woman now, staying with whatever friend will still talk to her. That we “turned our backs.” That we “stole her future.”
That Easter ended with a series of my family dramas, tulips in a vase on the table, and the laugh came back my home. It felt like home again.
