Chapter 3: The Eviction of Illusions
I did not mail the notice. I delivered it in person.
I arrived at the house on a Thursday evening at six o'clock. The snow was falling in heavy, wet clumps, covering the porch where my mums used to sit. When I knocked, it was Megan who opened the door.
She looked exhausted. Her perfectly smooth hair was pulled into a messy clip, and she wore a faded sweater. When she saw me, her eyes widened.
"Margaret? We weren't expecting you."
"I know," I said, stepping past her into the foyer. "Where is Daniel?"
"He's in the kitchen," she said, her voice tightening. She trailed behind me like a nervous shadow.
Daniel was at the stove, attempting to salvage a burnt pan of chicken. When he saw me, he turned off the burner, wiping his hands on a towel. "Mom? Is everything okay?"
I reached into my leather tote bag and pulled out the legal envelope. I placed it onto the granite counter. The sound was just as sharp as the cedar box had been months ago.
"I received notification that a short-term rental permit was applied for under this address," I said, looking directly at Megan. "You are attempting to rent out my primary bedroom."
Daniel froze. He turned slowly to his wife. "Megan? What is she talking about?"
Megan’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. "It was just an idea! We need the extra income, Daniel. The rent your mother is charging us is bleeding us dry. It’s a huge house, we aren’t even using the downstairs suite—"
"You signed an agreement," I interrupted, my voice perfectly level. "Paragraph four, section B. No subletting. No commercial use. You do not own this property, Megan. You do not have the right to monetize it."
"A contract is not a suggestion. It is a boundary drawn in ink. You have crossed it."
Daniel looked sick. "You went behind my back?" he asked Megan, his voice trembling. "After everything? After we promised her we would respect her terms?"
"I was trying to save our lifestyle!" Megan snapped, tears of frustration springing to her eyes. "You don't understand! My friends are going to Aspen for New Year's, and I can't even afford to go out to dinner! I'm trapped in this rustic, boring—"
"Enough." Daniel’s voice cracked like a whip. It was a sound I had never heard from him. It was the sound of a boy finally becoming a man.
He looked at the envelope on the counter, then at me. "What is this, Mom?"
"It is a thirty-day notice to cure or quit," I said. "Withdraw the permit application immediately, or the lease is terminated. Both of you will have to vacate."
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Megan began to cry, actual, messy tears. But Daniel did not comfort her. He looked around the kitchen, at the burned food, the mounting bills on the counter, the illusion of their perfect life shattered on the floor.
"You don't have to evict us, Mom," Daniel said, his voice hollow. "I'm leaving."
