Five thousand dollars.
Lisa let out a small sound, something between a laugh and a scoff. She didn’t even bother to cover her mouth.
The lawyer wasn’t finished. He straightened the papers and said, almost gently, that I would have forty eight hours to vacate the premises.
“Forty eight hours?” I heard myself repeat, like the words belonged to someone else.
As if I were a tenant whose lease had expired, not the woman who had slept in the next room listening to Margaret’s breathing for a decade, waiting for it to change.
Ryan finally stood. Then he walked toward me, stopping just far enough away to feel safe, his expression hard and decided.
“You heard him,” he said. “This is how it is.”
I looked at his face, the face I had kissed, the face I’d defended at holidays when people joked about how absent he’d been, and searched for something familiar.
There was nothing.
“You’re not family,” he added. “You were just the caregiver.”
Lisa smiled openly this time, quick and sharp, a grin that vanished as fast as it came, like she couldn’t help herself.
The lawyer cleared his throat again and used the word eviction carefully, as if choosing it might soften the blow. He explained what would happen if I didn’t comply.
Legal steps. Notices. Enforcement.
Leave a Comment