Adrian handed my mother a folder.
“This is formal notice that you are no longer permitted to reside at this property. The deed is solely in Ms. Whitaker’s name. Your belongings have been inventoried and moved to a secure storage unit for thirty days at Ms. Whitaker’s expense.”
My mother’s face twisted. “This is my home.”
“No,” I said. “It was Dad’s home. Then it became mine. You were allowed to stay because I loved you.”
Her eyes flashed. “You ungrateful little—”
Adrian interrupted smoothly. “I would be careful. We have video and audio of this morning’s incident.”
Violet went pale.
My mother froze.
For years, she had mastered the private wound and the public smile. She knew how to say terrible things in kitchens, then greet neighbors with sweet tea and sympathy. But cameras do not care about reputation.
“You recorded me?” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “You recorded yourself.”
Violet recovered enough to scoff. “This is insane. Where are we supposed to go?”
I looked at her.
“Wherever people go when they can’t take what isn’t theirs.”
Her face reddened. “You’re really doing this over soup?”
“No,” I said quietly. “I’m doing this over every time I said yes because I was afraid of what would happen if I said no.”
