“Ma’am?” the lead guy—Mike, according to his shirt—said, stepping into the living room. “We’re here to load the items designated in the order.”
Tracy froze mid-sentence.
“I’m not ready,” she snapped. “You’ll have to come back.”
“Sorry,” Mike said. “Court order says today. We pack what’s on the list, put it in storage. If you have an issue, you can take it up with the court.”
She sputtered.
“This is ridiculous! You can’t just—”
He walked away.
Movers started carrying in boxes. Dollies squeaked. Tape ripped.
Tracy lost it.
She ran around the house grabbing random items, declaring them “family heirlooms.”
Including:
A ceramic bowl my mom had made in a pottery class, which Tracy had once tried to throw away because it “didn’t match her aesthetic.”
The Keurig I’d bought.
Several towels.
Yes. Towels.
The movers were professional. If it was on the “hers” list we’d worked out with my lawyer—her clothes, her personal items, the furniture she’d actually paid for—they packed it carefully. If it wasn’t, they left it.
I leaned against the banister and watched.
Sierra sobbed because her carefully curated TikTok backdrop—a corner of her room with fairy lights and a fake plant—was being dismantled.