Chapter 3 - The Screaming Call
It was Thursday morning, precisely 9:15 AM, when my phone screen lit up with Eleanor’s name.
I picked up on the third ring. I didn't say hello. I simply held the phone to my ear.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!" Eleanor’s voice shrieked so loudly through the speaker that I had to pull the phone three inches away from my head. She was hyperventilating, her voice shrill and jagged. "ARE YOU INSANE?! WHAT KIND OF SICK JOKE ARE YOU TRYING TO PLAY ON YOUR OWN MOTHER?!"
"It isn't a joke, Eleanor," I said, my tone flat, steady, and entirely devoid of emotion.
"I HAVE A LEGAL DOCUMENT HERE FROM A LAWYER SAYING I HAVE SEVENTY-TWO HOURS TO VACATE MY OWN HOUSE!" she screamed. "THIS IS MY HOME! I RAISED YOU IN THIS HOUSE! YOUR FATHER AND I BOUGHT THIS LAND!"
"Dad bought the land," I corrected her gently. "Dad paid off the mortgage. And Dad created the trust that owns every single brick, shingle, and square inch of that property."
There was a sudden, heavy silence on the line, followed by the muffled sound of papers shuffling. In the background, I could hear my brother Julian’s panicked voice asking, "What does it say? What does it mean, Mom?"
"You... you can't do this," Eleanor stammered, her rage briefly flickering into disbelief. "I am your mother! I gave you life! You were staying here out of my charity!"
"I paid you two thousand dollars a month," I said coldly. "And in return, you changed the locks on an eleven-year-old girl in the rain. You let my daughter stand in fifty-degree weather for five hours until her hands were blue. You didn't just break my trust, Eleanor. You broke the law. And more importantly, you triggered the safety clause Dad wrote into his will specifically to protect us from you."
"Your father loved me!" she spat out, attempting to reclaim her dominance.
"Dad knew who you were," I replied. "He knew that the moment he wasn't here to keep you in check, you would treat people as disposable. He made sure that if you ever turned your malice toward Emma or me, you would lose everything he left behind."
"Julian lives here!" she yelled desperate now. "Sarah lives here! Where are we supposed to go?!"
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"That is no longer my concern," I said. "You have sixty-eight hours remaining. If the premises are not vacated by Sunday at 9:00 AM, the sheriff's department will execute the order. Do not call me again unless it is through Richard Vance."
I hung up the phone before she could fire another word. My phone buzzed six times over the next hour with text messages from Julian accusing me of being heartless, throwing family out on the street, and ruining our mother's health. I blocked his number without reading another word.
