Chapter 5 - The Eviction of the Parasites
Three days later. Thursday afternoon.
The Victorian Village neighborhood of Columbus was quiet, the autumn leaves drifting across the brick sidewalks.
A large, yellow moving truck sat parked outside the two-story brick townhouse Ethan had claimed as his "pre-marital pride."
Standing on the front porch was a court-appointed bailiff, two uniformed Columbus Police officers, and my attorney, Marcus Sterling.
I sat inside my mother's Mercedes across the street, watching through the tinted windows.
The front door of the townhouse flew open.
Linda marched out onto the porch, wearing a stained bathrobe, shrieking at the bailiff while clutching a stack of legal notices.
"This is my son's house!" Linda screamed, her voice echoing down the tree-lined street. "You can't throw me out! I've been staying here three days a week for two years!"
The bailiff didn't argue. He held up an official Order of Exclusive Use and Occupancy issued forty-eight hours earlier by the Franklin County Domestic Relations Court.
Because I had provided thirty-six months of bank statements proving my business revenue had paid over one hundred and sixty thousand dollars directly toward the mortgage, property taxes, and home improvements, the court had granted me immediate, exclusive possession of the property pending the final divorce asset division.
"Mrs. Bennett," the bailiff stated clearly. "You have thirty minutes to remove your personal clothing and exit the premises. Any secondary property—inclusive of furniture, electronics, and housewares—is currently impounded under the court asset freeze."
"Where am I supposed to go?!" Linda wept, dropping her hands to her sides, her artificial composure completely shattered. "Ethan is staying on Travis's couch! His company suspended him on Tuesday because of the domestic violence indictment! We don't have any money!"
"That is not a judicial concern, ma'am," the bailiff replied smoothly. "Start loading your clothes, or you will be removed in handcuffs."
From across the street, I watched as Travis’s beat-up sedan pulled up to the curb.
Travis and his aunt got out, looking embarrassed, hurried, and terrified, and began carrying trash bags filled with Linda’s clothes out to the trunk.
No caterers. No servants. No white linen tablecloths. No dark chocolate cakes.
Just a bitter, cruel woman carrying her clothes in plastic trash bags out to a rusty sedan, realized too late that the woman she had spent three years calling "hired help" was the only reason her son had a roof over his head.
I rolled down the Mercedes window slightly as Travis’s car pulled away from the curb.
Linda looked across the street, her bloodshot eyes catching mine through the glass.
May you like
I didn't gesture. I didn't smile.
I simply rolled the window back up, shutting out the noise of her world forever.
