Chapter 4 - The Avalanche Begins
I didn't pick up the phone on Wednesday night. I didn't pick it up on Thursday morning, either, even as the sunlight streamed across the polished concrete floors of my new loft and the notification counter climbed from seventy-nine into the hundreds.
Instead, I spent Thursday morning walking along the lakefront path, wrapped in a heavy charcoal-gray parka, breathing in the crisp, freezing air coming off Lake Michigan. The water was a deep, slate gray, churning with whitecaps under a pale winter sun. For the first time in my adult life, my shoulders didn't ache with the invisible weight of other people's expectations. There was no nagging voice in the back of my mind reminding me to call my mother back, no looming dread of being cornered at a family gathering, no exhausting mental arithmetic of how to keep the peace while preserving my own boundaries.
I was entirely, beautifully, terrifyingly free.
When I finally returned to the loft around noon, curiosity finally got the better of me. I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the phone. The screen lit up instantly, flashing a dizzying cascade of missed calls, urgent text messages, and fragmented voicemails.
I sat down on the leather sofa and began scrolling through the wreckage.
Mom (14 missed calls):
“Maris, where are you? Your father is furious. Call me the second you get this.”
“Stop playing games. Brenner and the kids are packed and ready to head over to the condo.”
“Maris Wren, pick up this phone right now! Why is a strange man in a business suit changing the locks on your front door? What did you do?!”
I paused on that last text, a slow, cold smile spreading across my face. Ah. The locksmith from Apex Holdings had been prompt.
I swiped down to Talia’s messages.
Talia (22 missed calls):
“Are you seriously pulling this stunt right now? Dad is having a fit!”
“That condo was supposed to be our fresh start! Brenner already told his boss we’re moving!”
“You selfish, miserable cow. You have your own job, your own money, why do you have to ruin everything for us? Give me the damn gate code right now or I swear I’ll call the police!”
I let out a low, musical laugh, tossing the phone onto the cushion. Call the police. On what grounds? Trespassing? Breaking and entering? The police would show up, run the deed, and find out that the property belonged to an institutional real estate holding firm in New York, legally purchased and paid for in full by wire transfer forty-eight hours prior. Talia and Brenner would look like absolute fools trying to explain to a bemused cop why they thought they had a legal right to move into a stranger's newly acquired asset.
Then came Dad’s messages. Short, authoritative, dripping with the wounded pride of a patriarch whose word had just been treated like toilet paper.
Dad (11 missed calls):
“Maris. Get home immediately. You are showing a disgraceful lack of respect for this family.”
“Your mother is beside herself. Talia is crying. Fix this before I take legal action against you.”
Legal action. That was rich. My father, who didn't even know the difference between a quitclaim deed and a warranty deed, was going to sue me for selling my own legally acquired property.
Just as I was about to set the phone back down, it vibrated violently in my hand.
An incoming call. Caller ID: Dad.
I stared at the screen as it lit up the dim living room, the familiar ringtone playing a grating little tune that I had assigned to him ten years ago. It rang once. Twice. Three times. I watched the progress bar crawl across the screen, my thumb hovering directly over the red decline button.
Then, I swiped left. Rejected.
Almost instantly, the phone buzzed again. Talia.
Rejected.
And then, as if they were sharing a conference call in the living room of my childhood home, my mother dialed in.
Rejected.
I went into the settings, tapped my contact list, and systematically blocked all three of them—along with Aunt Lorna, Brenner, and anyone else foolish enough to act as an airborne carrier for my family's collective hysteria. The screen went blissfully, perfectly silent.
The red notification badge vanished. The world outside my window continued its steady, indifferent hum.
May you like
I walked over to the kitchen, poured myself a cup of herbal tea, and looked out at the Chicago skyline. The first phase of my exit strategy was complete. They knew I was gone. They knew I wasn't coming back. And they knew, with terrifying certainty, that my condo—their precious, entitlement-fueled inheritance gift—was completely, irrevocably out of their reach.
Now, all I had to do was sit back, relax, and wait to see how they handled the rest of the week.
