Tracy, however, was ready for a show.
She called a “family meeting” that morning. Her kids shuffled into the living room behind her. She’d dressed for the occasion in a cream suit with the pattern of real Chanel but the stitching of something bought off a sketchy Instagram ad.
She stood in front of the fireplace—the same fireplace where my grandparents used to hang our stockings at Christmas—and launched into a speech.
“After much reflection,” she began, “I’ve decided to take the high road. This environment has become too toxic. I refuse to subject myself or my children to it any longer. So we are choosing to leave this house.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You mean, complying with the legal eviction?” I asked.
She ignored me.
“We’re moving to Florida,” she announced. “Your father and I just bought a beautiful house in Tampa. Much nicer than this old place.”
Sure, Jan.
I’d seen the GoFundMe she’d set up: “Family in Crisis Needs Housing.” It had forty-three dollars in it. Thirty of which came from her MLM upline.
While she waxed poetic about palm trees and fresh starts and “choosing joy,” there was a knock at the door.
The movers.
The ones I had hired.