The following morning, I woke to the sound of a moving truck pulling into the driveway. My father stepped out first, followed by my mother and Gabrielle. Two movers began carrying boxes toward the front door, even though I had never agreed to leave. Dad held up a folder and announced that the legal documents gave them the right to take possession of the property. I demanded to see the original paperwork, but he told me I had already wasted enough of everyone’s time. Mom stood on the porch, repeating that this would be easier if I simply accepted reality. Gabrielle avoided looking directly at me, although I noticed her glancing toward the house as if she were already deciding where everything would go.

I refused to move. I told them that my grandparents had left the house to me and that I would not surrender it because someone had arrived with a few official-looking papers. Dad’s expression hardened. He accused me of being selfish and disrespectful, reminding me how much my parents had supposedly sacrificed for the family. I almost believed him for a moment, because that was what he had always done whenever I questioned him. Then I remembered Grandma’s warning from the summer before she died. She had told me to keep every letter and bank statement, no matter how unimportant they seemed. She had also given me the name of the attorney who created their trust. I went inside, retrieved the envelope I had carefully protected, and called Judge Cornelia Avery. When she answered, I told her my family had come for the house. There was a long silence before she replied, “Do not sign anything. I’m coming over.”