“The deed has only my name on it, Megan,” I said evenly. She insisted her parents had already sold their home and that Kevin had signed the contractor’s papers “for the family.” I asked the foreman for his permit. He had none, because the property owner had never authorized the work. He stared at the gutted kitchen, then at me, before quietly telling his crew to pack everything up. One saw stopped, then another, until the house was completely silent.

Megan stood there clutching her iced coffee, finally realizing that a clipboard wasn’t a title. I spent the night in the one bedroom they hadn’t touched, listening to the tide through the exposed studs. At dawn, fists pounded against my door. Megan, Kevin, and her parents stood outside beside a loaded moving truck, their faces pale. Their home sale had closed Friday, and they had nowhere to go. Click continue reading below