Chapter 4 - The Knock on the Door
The afternoon sun reflected off the pristine white snow blanketing the manicured lawn of 742 Willow Creek Lane.
Inside the kitchen, Monica was setting down a tray of freshly baked sugar cookies when the heavy iron knocker struck the front door three times with deliberate, booming force.
“Greg, get that!” Monica called out toward the basement stairs.
No response came except the faint, muffled sound of video game explosions.
Monica sighed loudly, smoothing down her designer yoga pants, and marched to the foyer. She expected it to be the Amazon delivery driver with the new skincare serums she’d ordered on Hannah’s shared Prime account, or perhaps our mother dropping off leftovers.
She pulled the door wide open with a cheery holiday greeting already on her lips.
Standing on the porch was a broad-shouldered man in a dark navy coat holding a heavy leather binder. He didn't look like a delivery driver. His face was weathered, professional, and completely devoid of holiday warmth.
“Monica Vance-Holloway?” the man asked, his voice monotone.
Monica blinked, taken aback. “Yes? Who are you?”
“My name is Marcus Reed. I am a licensed process server with Franklin County Legal Services.” He unclipped a thick manila packet from his binder and extended it toward her. “You are being served with a formal Notice to Vacate and Termination of Tenancy for the real property located at 742 Willow Creek Lane, Dublin, Ohio.”
Monica’s brain stalled. She looked at the paper, then at the man’s chest. “I... what? This is a mistake. I own this house.”
“Ma’am, the legal title holder is the Hannah and Adam Vance Revocable Living Trust. I am serving you on behalf of the owner’s legal counsel, David Miller, Esq.” Marcus stepped forward, pressing the document firmly into her hands. “You have thirty-six days—effective through January 31st at 11:59 PM—to vacate the premises. All legal remedies under the Ohio Revised Code will be pursued upon failure to comply. Have a good afternoon.”
Marcus turned on his heel, walked down the snowy walkway, got into his sedan, and drove away.
Monica stood frozen on her front porch, the freezing wind whipping her blonde hair across her face.
She looked down at the document. The bold, black header at the top seemed to scream back at her:
**NOTICE TO TERMINATE MONTH-TO-MONTH TENANCY AND DEMAND FOR POSSESSION**
**TO: MONICA VANCE-HOLLOWAY, GREGORY HOLLOWAY, AND ALL OTHER OCCUPANTS**
**PREMISES: 742 WILLOW CREEK LANE**
Her fingers began to shake. She flipped past the formal legal jargon until her eyes hit the bottom of the second page:
*Total unpaid rent balance: $58,800.00. While the landlord reserves the right to pursue full civil recovery of back rent, total relinquishment of the property in clean, undamaged condition by January 31st will satisfy immediate eviction proceedings.*
*Signed,*
*Hannah Vance, Trustee.*
A strangled, high-pitched scream tore from Monica’s throat.
She slammed the front door shut, dropped the packet onto the hardwood floor, and sprinted down the basement stairs.
“GREG! GET UP! GET UP RIGHT NOW!”
Ten minutes later, my phone didn't just buzz; it nearly vibrated off the desk.
The caller ID flashed: **Monica.**
I let it ring until it rolled to voicemail. Two seconds later, she called again. I hit decline.
Then my phone lit up with a call from Daniel. I answered and put it on speaker.
“Are you out of your psychotic mind?” Daniel screamed into the receiver before I could even say hello. “Did you just send a court server to Monica’s house with an eviction notice? On the day after Christmas?!”
“Hello to you too, Daniel,” I said calmly, leaning back in my leather office chair.
“Don’t you ‘Hello Daniel’ me! Monica is having an absolute hysterical breakdown! Mom is hyperventilating! What the hell is wrong with you? Because Madison made a joke about your kid being slow, you’re throwing a family out onto the street?!”
“First of all,” I replied, my voice chillingly steady, “it is not Monica’s house. It is mine. Second, Olivia is not slow. Third, Monica has lived in a four-bedroom luxury house completely free of charge for five years while disrespecting my daughter under my own dime. The free trial has expired, Daniel.”
“You’re an evil, cold-hearted b—”
“If you speak to me like that again,” I interrupted, “I will block your number permanently, and the next time you need someone to co-sign an auto loan like you asked me to do last November, you can ask Monica instead. Oh wait—her credit score can’t even qualify for a gym membership.”
Daniel went dead silent.
“Thirty-six days,” I added. “Tell her to start packing boxes.”
May you like
I tapped the red button and ended the call.
***
