Chapter 6 - The Eviction
I engaged the deadbolt, threw the chain lock, and stood in the foyer, listening to the muffled sounds outside. I could hear Lorraine crying hysterically on the front lawn, and Andrew violently throwing the suitcases into the trunk of his SUV.
I walked to the front window and pulled back the curtain just an inch.
Andrew was frantically trying to shove his mother's oversized bags into the back of his car. Lorraine was standing in the driveway, pointing a shaking finger at the house and screaming something indistinguishable.
Suddenly, a dark blue pickup truck pulled up to the end of my driveway, blocking Andrew's exit. Marcus, the off-duty police officer I had called earlier, stepped out. He was in plainclothes, but his badge was clearly visible on his belt, and his demeanor screamed law enforcement.
I couldn't hear what Marcus said, but I watched as he approached Andrew with his arms crossed. He spoke quietly, pointing a finger down the street. Andrew, looking absolutely terrified, nodded vigorously. Marcus then turned to Lorraine, said two short sentences, and her hysterical crying abruptly stopped. She shrank back into the passenger seat of the SUV like a frightened turtle.
Marcus stayed in the driveway, arms crossed, watching like a hawk as Andrew finally slammed the trunk shut, practically dove into the driver's seat, and threw the car into reverse. Marcus moved his truck just enough to let them pass.
Andrew's tires squealed as he peeled out of the neighborhood, driving away with his ruined life packed into the trunk.
Marcus walked up to my front porch and tapped on the glass. I opened the door.
"Any problems in there, Claire?" he asked, his eyes scanning the foyer for signs of a struggle.
"None at all, Marcus," I smiled, feeling a genuine wave of relief wash over me. "Textbook extraction. Thank you for being here."
"I told them that if they come within five hundred feet of this property again, I'd personally see to it they spend a weekend in holding," Marcus grinned. "Have a good night, Claire. Happy Birthday."
"It really is," I replied.
I locked the door again and leaned against it. The house was entirely silent. For two years, the air in this home had felt heavy, suffocating under the weight of Lorraine's passive-aggressive comments, the smell of her terrible perfume, and Andrew's constant, cowardly apologies. Now, the air felt crisp. Clean. Mine.
I walked upstairs to the guest room where Lorraine had lived. It smelled like mothballs and entitlement. I opened the window wide, letting the cool upstate New York breeze sweep through the room. I stripped the bed, throwing the expensive sheets I had bought her straight into the garbage bag. I would hire a cleaning crew on Monday to scrub every inch of the room, paint the walls, and turn it into the home gym I had always wanted.
Down the hall, I went into my master bedroom. The dent in the headboard was a harsh, ugly reminder of the morning's violence. I ran my fingers over the splintered oak. I could have repaired it. But instead, I decided I would drag the entire bedframe to the curb for heavy trash pickup on Tuesday. I deserved a new bed. A new room. A new start.
May you like
I ordered myself a massive plate of sushi from my favorite high-end restaurant, opened the $100 bottle of wine I had bought for myself months ago, and ate in the middle of my living room, watching whatever I wanted on television at whatever volume I pleased.
There were no sighs of disapproval. There were no demands for a home-cooked meal. There were no excuses. There was only the delicious, intoxicating taste of absolute freedom.
