A few days later, I received a call from my father’s lawyer, Jonathan Wells. “Just some paperwork to finalize,” he said.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My father, in his quiet way, had made sure we would always have a home.
I didn’t tell my mother. Not yet. I wanted to believe she might come to her senses. But five days later, she proved me wrong.
She changed the locks.
That night, after rescuing Hannah from the rain, I sat awake until morning — not crying, not angry, just resolute. By sunrise, I called Jonathan. “She locked us out,” I said.
He sighed. “Bring the trust documents.”
At his office, he reviewed everything carefully. “You’re the trustee,” he said. “Your mother has no legal standing. I’ll draft the eviction notice now.”
When he handed me the papers, he asked, “Do you want to serve it personally?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ve had enough doors slammed in my face.”
