Chapter 3 - The Eviction and the Police
Brandon looked like a man standing on a landmine. On one side stood his mother, red-faced, breathing heavily, demanding his unconditional protection. On the other side stood me, holding the undeniable evidence of fraud, supported by a woman who knew every police captain in the Baltimore metropolitan area.
"Abigail, please," Brandon pleaded, his hands shaking as he held the forged quitclaim deed. "Look, let's just calm down. My mom made a desperate mistake. She was just worried about Rachel. We don't need to call the cops. We can just tear the paper up!"
He made a sudden movement to rip the document in half.
CRACK.
Eleanor stepped forward with terrifying speed, catching Brandon’s wrist in a vise grip before he could tear the pages.
"Attempting to destroy evidence of a felony in front of a witness?" Eleanor barked, snatching the document cleanly from his hand. "Don't be a fool, Brandon. This original goes straight into my bank safety deposit box tonight."
"Brandon!" Gertrude shrieked, grabbing her coat from the hanger. "Are you going to let these inner-city street dogs intimidate us?! This is your house! You pay the bills here! Tell her mother to get out!"
"I can't tell her to get out, Mom!" Brandon snapped back, his voice cracking with desperation. "The deed is in Abigail's name! It was bought before we got married! If she calls the police with this paper, you're going to jail!"
"So what?!" Gertrude yelled, her narcissism completely blinding her to reality. "She's your wife! She wouldn't dare put your mother in handcuffs! Think about what people at your office would say! Think about your reputation!"
I pulled my cell phone from my coat pocket, unlocked the screen, and dialed 911. I pressed the speakerphone button so the loud, crisp dial tone echoed through the living room.
"Baltimore City Emergency, what is your location?" the dispatcher's voice echoed clearly.
Gertrude gasped, her jaw dropping.
"Yes," I said smoothly into the phone, keeping my eyes fixed on my mother-in-law. "I need an officer dispatched to 1420 Riverside Drive, Apartment 4B. I have an unwanted individual on the premises who has committed physical aggression, refused to leave private property, and attempted financial identity fraud against the deed owner."
"Is the individual currently hostile?" the operator asked.
"No, she's leaving right now," Brandon interrupted loudly, lunging toward the phone. "Officer, it's a family misunderstanding, she's leaving!"
"Send a unit to confirm her departure," I added before hanging up.
Gertrude stared at me as if I had suddenly transformed into a stranger. For three years, she had pushed me, taken my money, insulted my family, stolen my daughter's clothes, and dictated how my home was run—all while I kept the peace to save my marriage. She had believed I was weak. She had believed my patience was endless.
She didn't realize that my patience hadn't been weakness; it had been a reservoir of grace. And she had just drained the last drop.
"You monster," Gertrude hissed, her hands trembling as she grabbed her oversized leather tote bag from the kitchen counter. "You calculating, cold-hearted witch. My son made the biggest mistake of his life marrying you."
"Your bag is packed, Gertrude," I said, pointing toward the open front door. "Get out."
"Brandon, come with me!" Gertrude ordered, stepping into the hallway. "Leave her here with her mother! Let's see how she pays the bills when you walk away!"
Brandon stood frozen in the center of the living room, looking between his mother waiting by the elevator and me standing by the front door.
"Mom, go to Rachel's house," Brandon whispered, rubbing his temples frantically. "I... I need to fix this."
"If you don't walk down those stairs with me right now, Brandon Vance," Gertrude warned, her voice dripping with poison, "don't you ever call me your mother again!"
When Brandon didn't move, Gertrude let out a dramatic, guttural scream of frustration, turned on her heel, and marched down the hallway toward the elevator, her heavy heels clacking violently against the tile.
The silence that settled over the apartment after the front door slammed shut was suffocating.
Brandon turned to me, his eyes wide, pleading, and frantic. "Abigail... baby, look at me. I didn't know about the quitclaim deed. I swear to God on Paisley's life, I didn't know she forged your signature!"
"Maybe you didn't know about the signature, Brandon," I said, my voice eerily calm as I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a trash bag. "But you knew she took my payroll card two years ago and you let her keep it for three months. You knew she took Paisley's college fund contribution last Christmas to buy Rachel a designer purse. And tonight, when she stole five kilos of meat I spent hours cooking for our family, you told me to let her have it."
"She's my mother!" Brandon yelled defensively. "What was I supposed to do?!"
"You were supposed to be my husband," I replied.
I walked over to the guest room—the room Gertrude had occupied for the past six weeks under the pretext of a "short visit"—and began dumping her remaining clothes, beauty products, and shoes into black trash bags.
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"What are you doing?!" Brandon shouted, trying to grab the bag.
"I am clearing out the trash," I said, tossing the bags into the hallway by the front door. "Including anyone who enables her. Your mother is gone, Brandon. And if you ever defend her abuses in this house again, your bags will be sitting right next to hers."
