At 3:00 a.m., I drafted an email to a real estate attorney whose name I found online, requesting an emergency consultation.
I needed to know my rights.
Could I legally evict them?
What was the process?
How long would it take?
I also emailed a locksmith asking about changing locks on a house where unwanted occupants had refused to leave.
Was that legal?
I needed to know every option.
As dawn broke over the motel parking lot, painting the asphalt in shades of gray and pink, I felt something I hadn’t felt in months.
Power.
Not much—just a flicker, like a candle flame in a dark room.
But it was there.
They thought I was finished. They thought I would disappear quietly into some sad little apartment, grateful for whatever crumbs of contact they might throw me.
They were wrong.
My phone buzzed at 7:47 a.m.
Robert’s name flashed on the screen, then again at 7:48.
At 7:49.
At 7:50.
Call after call after call.
I watched the phone vibrate across the cheap motel nightstand.
And I smiled.
Let him wait.
Let him wonder.
For the first time in two years, I wasn’t answering to anyone.
The attorney’s office smelled of leather and old books. Daniel Chen was younger than I expected—maybe forty—with sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
He’d agreed to see me that same morning after reading my email, calling it urgent and straightforward.
“Mrs. Anderson,” he said, spreading my documents across his mahogany desk, “you have an extremely strong case. This is your property. Your son and daughter-in-law are technically tenants at will. And since you’ve never collected rent, they have even fewer rights than typical tenants.”
“So I can evict them,” I said.
Hope bloomed in my chest.
“Yes, but there’s a process,” he said. “Colorado law requires written notice—30 days for a month-to-month tenancy. After that, if they refuse to leave, we file for formal eviction through the courts.”
He looked up at me.
“It could take two to three months total. Can you afford to wait that long?”
Could I?
Every day they remained in my house, they were erasing me from it.
But rushing would only create legal problems.
“What’s the fastest way to do this correctly?”
“I’ll draft the eviction notice today. We’ll have it served by a process server tomorrow. That starts the clock.”
He paused.
“Mrs. Anderson, I have to ask. Are you prepared for this to get ugly? Family evictions often do.”
“It’s already ugly,” I said quietly. “They threw me out of my own home.”
“Then let’s get started.”
By noon, I had a plan.
Daniel would handle the eviction. I’d also filed a police report documenting that I’d been constructively evicted—forced out through threat and intimidation.
The police officer who took my statement looked sympathetic.
“Happens more than you’d think,” she said sadly. “Elder abuse takes many forms.”
Elder abuse.
The words hit me like ice water.
Was that what this was?
My phone had 37 missed calls from Robert.
Twenty-three text messages.
I read them in the attorney’s parking lot, watching the progression from confusion to anger to panic.
“Mom, why isn’t the car payment going through?”
“Mom, we need to talk.”
“Call me.”
“This is ridiculous. Call me back right now.”
“You’re being incredibly childish.”
“We didn’t kick you out. We just needed space.”
“Jessica’s crying. You’re tearing this family apart.”
“Fine. If you want to play games, we can play games, too.”
That last message arrived at 2:00 p.m., and it sent a chill through me.
What did that mean?
I called Daniel immediately.
“Don’t engage,” he advised. “Don’t answer calls. Don’t respond to texts. All communication goes through me now. If they want to talk, they can talk to their lawyer if they get one.”
That evening, I checked into a small extended-stay hotel.
Nothing fancy, but clean and dignified.
As I unpacked my two suitcases, my phone rang again.
This time it was an unknown number.
Against my better judgment, I answered.
“Margaret.”
Jessica’s voice was pure poison.
“We need to discuss this situation like adults.”
“I have nothing to discuss with you.”
“You’re making a huge mistake. Robert is devastated. How can you do this to your own son?”
Her voice shifted, became almost sweet.
“We were just trying to help Jessica’s parents. You took it completely the wrong way.”
“You told me to pack my things and leave my house.”
“My house?” Jessica laughed, sharp and bitter. “You mean the house where we’ve been living, maintaining, improving? The house where we’ve invested our time and energy?”
“I think you’ll find that legally—”
“Legally, it’s my name on the deed,” I said. “Only my name.”
I kept my voice steady.
“You’ll be receiving official paperwork tomorrow.”
The silence stretched for three seconds.
“Then you’re evicting us,” she said, her voice rising to a shriek. “Your own son? After everything we’ve done for you—letting you live with us, taking care of you—”
“Letting me live in my own house,” I said. “Taking care of me by spending my money.”
The fury I’d been suppressing erupted.
“I have every bank statement, Jessica. Every receipt. Every payment I made for you. Do you understand what I’m saying? I have proof of everything.”
Another silence—longer this time.
When Jessica spoke again, her voice was cold.
“You’re going to regret this, Margaret. We have rights, too. We’ll fight this. And when we win, don’t expect any relationship with your future grandchildren.”
The line went dead.
I sat on the hotel bed, hands shaking again.
Not from fear.
From rage.
Future grandchildren?
She was already using hypothetical children as weapons.
My laptop pinged.
An email from Daniel Chen.
“Process server will deliver notice at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. I’ll CC you on the delivery confirmation. Stay strong, Margaret. You’re doing the right thing.”
Was I?
Would a good mother do this to her son?
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