“Paper Two.” I slid the next document forward. “As of 4:00 p.m. today, this property is locked inside a life estate trust. My mother holds the absolute, irrevocable legal right to inhabit this house until she takes her last breath. It cannot be sold, flipped, or inherited around her. There is no alternate timeline where this house ever becomes yours, Derek.”
I dropped the final three envelopes onto the table with three sharp slaps.
“Paper Three. Formal revocation of permission to occupy this property. Effective tonight. Derek Holloway. Melissa Holloway. Sandra Voss.”
Melissa erupted from her chair, nearly knocking it backward. “You cannot do this! This is our home!”
I looked at the woman who had enslaved my mother, and the exhaustion of a twenty-hour flight finally hardened into absolute rage. “No, Melissa. This is a house I own, where my mother has a legal right to exist. You have been uninvited guests. Guests who forced the rightful occupant to scrub your patio on her hands and knees for a dinner party.”
June Aldrich stood up, purposeful and dignified, and walked around the table to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with my mother. A second later, the two church ladies joined them, forming an impenetrable human wall.
Melissa went completely feral, her voice cracking into a chaotic shriek about ingratitude, about how she had single-handedly held the family together while I abandoned them. Sandra began shouting about how “in her day,” families didn’t betray each other.
I reached into the folder, extracted the laminated chore chart, and slammed it down in front of Sandra. “In your day, Sandra, did houseguests assign the homeowner Tuesday bathroom duty?”
Sandra’s mouth snapped shut.
Derek suddenly exploded upward, flipping his plate, roaring like a wounded animal. “You were never here, Iris!” He slammed both fists onto the table, rattling the crystal, attempting to physically intimidate me.
I didn’t flinch. I waited for the vibrations in the wine glasses to cease entirely.
“I am here now,” I whispered softly.
He stood there, breathing heavily, staring at a table he didn’t own, in a dining room he didn’t own, realizing his entire audience had turned against him.
I pulled out the final weapon: the printed bank statements, the branch manager’s stamp gleaming in the candlelight.
