When my lawyer, Attorney Samuel Drake, called to confirm receipt of the documents, Linda’s voice cracked.
“T-this must be a mistake. The house is mine. Eleanor told me—”
“She told you nothing of legal value,” Drake said. “Her will is clear. Mrs. Quinn left the property to Ms. Quinn… the same woman and child you forcibly removed.”
“I didn’t remove them!” Linda protested. “I just—”
“You changed the locks without notice and denied access to a minor. That qualifies as unlawful eviction and child endangerment. My client is being generous by only asking you to vacate peacefully.”
Silence.
Then a small, broken whisper:
“When do I have to leave?”
“You have 48 hours.”
Her panic was almost surreal.
“Does she want revenge? Is this about the girl?”
“My client simply wants what is rightfully hers.”
That afternoon, when I picked Harper up from school, she asked:
“Mom… are we going to be okay?”
I brushed damp hair from her forehead.
“We’re more than okay, sweetheart. We’re going home.”
That night, Linda called repeatedly. Apologizing. Explaining. Begging.
I didn’t answer.