Chapter 5 - The Antique Desk
The next morning, the drama escalated far beyond words.
I woke up at seven to the sound of scraping metal and heavy footsteps coming from the main floor. When I came downstairs in my robe, I found two movers in blue jumpsuits trying to muscle Thomas’s antique mahogany partners desk through the front double doors.
"Stop!" I cried out, rushing forward as fast as my legs would carry me. "Put that down! What are you doing with my husband's desk?"
One of the movers wiped his brow with a rag. "Ma'am, the work order says to take this to the consignment warehouse down on 4th Street. A Mr. Tyler Vance signed the authorization."
Before I could answer, Tyler walked into the foyer holding a large cup of iced coffee. He was wearing an oversized hoodie and designer sneakers, completely unbothered.
"What is the problem now?" Tyler groaned. "Gran, that desk is massive and smells like old mothballs. I sold it online to an antique dealer for six grand. I need the space for a dual-desk setup for my video editor."
"You... you sold your grandfather's desk?" I felt the room tilt slightly. Thomas had bought that desk when we were thirty. He had signed the deed to this very house on that desk. He had written love letters to me on that desk while he was stationed overseas.
"He's dead, Gran!" Tyler yelled, visibly frustrated. "He's been dead for six years! You can't keep hoarding all this junk forever! Dad told me yesterday that I could clear out whatever furniture I didn't need in that room. The house is going to be mine eventually, so why shouldn't I start setting it up now?"
"Your father does not own this house!" I shouted back, my voice shaking with rage. "He does not own a single nail, a single brick, or a single splinter of wood! And neither do you!"
"Whatever!" Tyler spat back, taking a sip of his coffee. "You’re eighty! How much longer do you think you have left? Five years? Ten? We’re the ones who have to live here after you’re gone. You're just being a bitter old woman who hates seeing young people succeed."
I turned to the movers. My voice was calm, icy, and lethal. "If you take that desk another inch toward that door, I will press charges for grand larceny against you and your company. This property belongs solely to Eleanor Vance. If you doubt me, check the deed with county records. Put that desk back in the study immediately, or I dial 911."
The movers looked at each other, recognized the unmistakable tone of an owner who had genuine authority, and immediately set the desk down.
"Sorry, kid," the older mover said to Tyler. "Take it up with your grandma. We ain't going to jail for your family feud."
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Tyler watched them push the desk back into the study. He glared at me with pure venom. "You are ruining my life," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Just wait until Dad gets here. You think you can treat us like this? You’d be dying alone in a nursing home if it wasn't for us visiting you."
"Then don't visit," I whispered. "Leave."
