Not because I didn’t have more to say, but because I refused to give her comfort just because her consequences finally arrived.
She chose this.
And I chose freedom.
The eviction notice went up the following week.
Not because the bank wanted to be cruel, but because banks don’t do mercy. They do timelines.
A neighbor filmed it, of course, because everyone films everything now. The video showed a notice taped to the front door of Cass’s mansion, the wind lifting the corners like it wanted to expose the whole thing.
Cass screamed at the officers in the clip, yelling that it was a misunderstanding, that she was famous, that someone was out to get her.
The officers didn’t react. They’d heard every version of entitlement before.
She was given seventy-two hours to vacate.
According to my mother, Cass used seventy-one of those hours to throw tantrums and the last hour to disappear.
My mother called the night before the deadline. Her voice was low, tired, like she’d been crying.
“She’s scared, sweetheart,” she said. “Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive her?”
I closed my laptop slowly, my fingers resting on the keys.
“You’re asking the wrong daughter for grace,” I said.