Daniel, validated by his mother’s toxic praise, hadn’t checked his personal email once. He didn’t see the automated alerts from our smart-home system. He didn’t see the formal legal notices. He truly believed that when he returned, he would find a broken, apologetic woman waiting on the porch with his daughter.
Instead, the taxi pulled up to the gates of the Hillcrest estate to find a massive, yellow moving truck parked in the circular driveway.
Two men in matching uniforms were carrying a heavy leather armchair—Evelyn’s favorite—down the front steps.
Daniel slammed the taxi door open, his face flushing crimson. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he screamed, sprinting up the driveway. “Drop that! That’s federal property! Who authorized this?”
