No emotional debate in my kitchen.
I didn’t go home immediately. Dana told me to stay away until the sheriff confirmed the property was secure.
So I sat in my car in a coffee shop parking lot, watching my phone light up.
Where are you?
This is insane.
Mom is upset.
Harold feels sick.
Stop this.
I didn’t respond.
At 4:12 p.m., my neighbor texted again:
It’s official. Sheriff car. Locksmith van. Movers. People are watching.
I called Dana.
“Proceeding,” she said.
Fifteen minutes later, she called back.
“They’ve been served. The sheriff clarified they are not tenants. The locks are being changed. Movers are removing their belongings from shared spaces. Everything is recorded. Ethan is… struggling.”
“Is Marjorie yelling?” I asked.
“She tried. The sheriff warned her about obstruction. When she claimed it was her son’s house, he asked for proof of ownership.”
She had none.
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