Chapter 6 - The Counter-Strike
By the second week of January, the reality of the eviction notice had thoroughly punctured the insulated bubble in which Richard and Eleanor had lived for the past three decades.
Marcus Vance, Megan’s attorney, called her on a rainy Tuesday morning while she was reviewing quarterly financial reports at her desk in the marketing firm where she worked as a senior project director.
"They tried to file an injunction," Marcus said, his voice dry and amused over the speakerphone. "Your brother Travis came into my office on Monday morning demanding a copy of the original promissory notes. He tried to argue that the verbal agreement he had with your father regarding a future inheritance supersedes the recorded deed."
Megan rubbed her temples, leaning back in her ergonomic mesh chair. "And what did you tell him, Marcus?"
"I told him that verbal agreements don't pay property taxes, and unless he had a cashier's check for four hundred thousand dollars to cover the remaining balance and back escrow, he needed to stop wasting my billable hours," Marcus replied smoothly. "Your parents are panicking. Nicole’s husband tried to offer a pathetic payment plan—offering to pay five hundred dollars a month toward the mortgage while your parents stay in the house."
"Five hundred a month?" Megan let out a dry, humorless laugh. "The property taxes alone are twelve thousand a year, not to mention insurance and maintenance."
"Exactly. I rejected it on your behalf. They have forty-five days left before the sheriff’s notice of execution takes effect. If they aren't out by March first, we proceed with physical removal."
Later that evening, Megan received an unexpected visit.
She was folding laundry in the living room when the buzzer downstairs rang. Peering through the intercom camera, she saw a figure standing in the sleet outside her apartment building lobby.
It was Nicole.
Without her luxury winter coat, looking strangely small and disheveled without the protective armor of her suburban social standing, Nicole stared directly into the camera lens, her eyes red-rimmed and desperate.
"Megan, please," Nicole’s voice crackled through the intercom speaker. "Just let me up for ten minutes. Please."
Megan stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment. Then, pressing the button, she buzzed her sister in.
When Nicole stepped out of the elevator on the third floor, she looked like a woman who had just survived a shipwreck. Her blond hair was damp from the sleet, her mascara slightly smeared, and her hands were clenched tightly around the straps of an expensive leather handbag that suddenly looked remarkably foolish in a gritty urban hallway.
Megan opened the apartment door all the way, standing in the threshold with her arms crossed over her chest.
"You have ten minutes, Nicole," Megan said coldly. "And don't wake Ella. She’s studying for a science quiz."
Nicole stepped inside, her eyes darting nervously around the modest apartment—taking in the exposed brick, the stack of library books on the coffee table, and the framed watercolor painting Ella had made for Megan’s birthday last year hanging proudly above the sofa.
"It’s a mess out there," Nicole whispered, sinking uninvited onto the edge of the sofa. "Mom hasn’t stopped crying for three days. Dad’s blood pressure is through the roof. Travis is threatening to cut them off entirely because he can’t afford to take them in with his own mortgage."
"Then Travis is finally learning what the rest of us have known for years," Megan replied, not offering her a seat. "That he’s an adult who has to live in the real world."
"How can you be so cold, Megan?" Nicole burst out, her voice rising in desperate frustration. "They raised us! They gave us everything!"
"Did they, Nicole?" Megan stepped closer, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp cadence. "Did they give you everything, or did they just fund your lifestyle by stealing my savings and erasing my daughter from their family history?"
Nicole flinched as if she had been physically struck. "That... that portrait thing was stupid! Mom didn't mean anything by it! The photographer just made a mistake, and—"
"Stop it," Megan interrupted, her voice cracking with suppressed fury. "Stop lying. Even to yourself. A digital artist doesn't accidentally Photoshop a nine-year-old child out of a family photograph and smooth the grass over her shoulders. Someone paid for that edit. Someone approved it. And everyone in that room looked at it on Christmas Eve and pretended my child didn't exist."
Nicole opened her mouth to argue, but the words died in her throat. She looked down at her manicured fingernails, the illusion of her perfect suburban superiority completely shattered.
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"They're old, Megan," Nicole whispered, her voice breaking. "Where are they going to go?"
"Somewhere affordable," Megan said, her tone absolute. "Just like millions of other retirees who didn't spend their entire lives living beyond their means while treating their children like personal ATM machines. You have forty-five days, Nicole. Help them pack."
