On weekends, Elise taught me my mom’s old recipes.
We recreated the lasagna Grandma used to make. The chicken soup Mom swore could cure anything. The sugar cookies shaped like stars we’d baked every Christmas.
We opened boxes Grandma had packed years ago and pulled out things Tracy had “accidentally” donated.
Some were gone forever.
We mourned them.
We filled the spaces with new memories.
People ask that.
Friends. Internet strangers. My own father, indirectly.
“Wasn’t eviction… extreme?” they say. “They’re still your family.”
Here’s the thing.
Family doesn’t:
Force a twelve-year-old into the role of unpaid maid.
Throw away the dead mom’s belongings because they don’t “match the aesthetic.”
Demand rent from the person who owns the house while letting their own adult kids coast for free.
Plot to manipulate that person into leaving their own home for “mental health.”
Try to steal the dead mom’s jewelry on their way out.
That’s not family.
That’s abuse wrapped in manipulation wrapped in entitlement.
Did it feel harsh? In the moment? Sometimes.
Serving papers felt dramatic. Final. Cold.