Chapter 9 - The Eviction of the Past
Two weeks later, the legal machinery of Vance Legal & Trust and the Carter Estate had moved with ruthless efficiency.
Julian Vance stood beside me on the front lawn of my parents’ suburban colonial house in Westchester. Parked in the driveway were three moving vans.
My mother sat on the stone steps, weeping into an embroidered handkerchief. My father was arguing vehemently with a deputy sheriff who was holding an eviction notice.
“This house is in my mother’s name!” David yelled, pointing a trembling finger at the paperwork. “She cannot throw her own son out into the street!”
“Actually, David,” Julian said, stepping onto the manicured grass, “the property was transferred to the Carter Family Trust forty years ago. As of last Friday, Rose Carter resigned as sole trustee and appointed Emily Carter as the executive administrator.”
My father turned his bloodshot eyes toward me. He looked like an old, defeated man. The sleek suits were gone, replaced by a rumpled polo and faded khakis.
“Emily…” he pleaded, dropping his hands to his sides. “We made mistakes. We favored Victoria because she was fragile—she needed the push! You were always so independent, so capable! You never needed us!”
I felt a sharp ache in my chest, but it was no longer a wound. It was merely a scar.
“I needed you when I was seven, Dad,” I said. “I needed you to come to my school plays instead of Victoria’s beauty pageants. I needed Mom to hold me when my business collapsed in Chicago, instead of telling me that perhaps I wasn't cut out for the real world. I needed you to stand up when my chair was dragged across that wedding floor.”
My mother looked up, her face red and swollen. “Where are we supposed to go? Everything we have is tied to Victoria’s legal defense! They froze our joint accounts!”
“There is a small two-bedroom apartment owned by the estate in Queens,” I said evenly. “The rent is paid for six months. After that, Dad, you can find a job as an insurance appraiser with your old license. The trust will cover your basic medical insurance, but not a single penny more.”
“You’re exiling us to Queens?” my mother cried out in horror, as if I had sentenced her to a labor camp.
“I am keeping you from becoming homeless,” I replied. “Which is considerably more mercy than you ever showed me.”
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I handed the keys to the moving supervisor, turned my back on the house where I had grown up feeling invisible, and got into Julian’s car.
***
