I didn’t shout once. By dawn, my inbox was full of confirmation numbers. That afternoon, I drove back to the mansion—not to confront them, but because something inside me needed to see the moment reality finally arrived at their door.
It came in white envelopes first. Certified mail. Then in suits.
A process server walked up their porch like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had. My mother’s smile collapsed when she saw the papers. My father’s face went red in stages, as if anger had to climb a staircase inside him.
Shell tried to laugh, but it sounded thin, like a spoon tapping a cracked cup. “What is this?” my mother shrieked, flipping pages she couldn’t understand fast enough. “This is harassment!”
My father tore through the documents, eyes darting, jaw tight.
“He can’t do this. He wouldn’t—”
Then the second blow hit: the bank had frozen accounts pending investigation. The third: a notice of lien.
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