The Eviction
At 6 a.m., pounding rattled my door. A sheriff’s deputy stood on my porch, holding an eviction order—my name printed like I was a stranger in my own home. Across the street, my parents watched silently, satisfied.
“Who filed this?” I asked. Deputy Romero glanced at the papers. His expression changed.
“The plaintiff is your son, Marcus, whom you’ve supported for years.”
Marcus, thirty-two, had moved back in three years ago, claiming it was temporary. He never left. Never worked. Treated my home like a hotel. My parents always sided with him, calling me “too harsh” when I insisted he become independent.
Two months ago, Marcus proposed putting the house in both our names. I refused. He left, offended. My parents complained I was “selfish.” I ignored them.
Then came the eviction notice. Deputy Romero showed me a deed in Marcus’s name—dated three months ago, with my forged signature. I presented my original deed. The deputy paused. He couldn’t act without a court.
I filed an emergency motion. The court verified the forgery, dismissed the eviction, and referred the case for criminal investigation. Marcus pleaded guilty to fraud and forgery. My parents blamed me. I changed the locks, blocked him, and cut ties.
I finally understood: enabling isn’t love—it’s abdication. Those who try to take your home, whether through manipulation or fraud, aren’t family. They’re trespassers. And you have every right to show them the door.
THE END