Using the money I’d been squirreling away from my Starbucks shifts, I booked a consultation with a local attorney. She was in her forties, sharp eyes, no nonsense. The kind of woman you immediately respected or feared or both.
I brought everything:
Copies of the deed and estate paperwork Grandpa’s lawyer had mailed me after he died.
Screenshots of Tracy’s texts about “making me contribute.”
Videos from my phone of her screaming in my face.
The audio of her trying to convince my dad to send me away.
My lawyer flipped through the documents, eyebrows climbing higher with each page.
“Your grandparents were very thorough,” she said. “They set up a trust. The house is in your name. There’s a clause preventing contesting without cause. This is airtight.”
“What about them?” I asked. “Can I… make them leave?”
She leaned back.
“You are the legal owner,” she said. “They are, essentially, tenants at will. You can serve them with an eviction notice. Standard timelines. It’ll feel messy because it’s family, but legally? It’s straightforward.”
“And the threats?” I asked, replaying Tracy’s “I’ll make your life hell.”