Chapter 3 - The Eviction Notice**
“You’re right about one thing, Dad,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet, tense garden. “People do need to learn their place.”
My father’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What are you talking about, Thomas? Don’t make a scene in front of my guests—”
“This isn't a scene, Robert. This is an eviction,” I interrupted, dropping the polite title entirely.
I pulled my heavy leather wallet out of my back pocket, extracted a folded set of printed legal documents, and let them flutter down onto my mother’s pristine birthday cake, right into the melting white frosting.
“Effective as of three minutes ago,” I continued, my voice cold as winter ice, “the commercial permit for this event garden has been officially revoked under my primary business license. Furthermore, the insurance policy covering this gathering is cancelled.”
A collective gasp sucked the remaining air out of the white canopy tent.
My mother shrieked, dropping her wine glass onto the white tablecloth where it shattered, splashing deep red liquid across her expensive cream dress. “You can’t do that! This is my seventieth birthday party! All our friends are here!”
“I built this catering business from the ground up,” I said loudly, looking at every shocked relative sitting under the tent. “I pay the lease on this municipal garden space every single month. And I am shutting this party down right now.”
My uncle Richard stood up angrily, pointing a finger at me. “Have you lost your absolute mind, Thomas?! They’re your parents! How dare you humiliate your mother over some kids playing waitress for an hour?!”
“Playing waitress?” I shot back, stepping forward until the raw fury in my eyes made Richard physically recoil. “They were being treated like stray dogs for your amusement while you sat around drinking my alcohol on my dime! But that’s not even the best part.”
I turned my gaze back to my father, whose face had gone from smug confidence to a sickly, pale shade of grey.
“For the last seven years, who do you think has been paying the mortgage, the electricity, the water, and the property taxes on that nice four-bedroom suburban house on Maple Street where you two live?” I asked, leaning in close.
My father didn't answer. He just stared at the documents stuck in the frosting.
“I did,” I answered for him. “Every single month, without fail. To the tune of thirty-two hundred dollars a month. But since you’re both such strong believers in people ‘learning their place’ and earning their keep... I’ve decided to practice a little tough love of my own.”
I pulled out my cell phone, unlocked the screen with a sharp tap, and dialed speakerphone on a number every relative in that tent recognized instantly.
After two rings, a crisp, professional voice answered through the garden sound system.
*“Apex Property Management, legal division. How may I direct your call?”*
“Hi, this is Thomas Vance,” I said clearly into the microphone. “I am calling to formally terminate the verbal lease agreement and stop all housing subsidies for the property located at 4428 Maple Street, effective immediately. Please issue a formal thirty-day notice of default and vacate to the occupants, Robert and Helen Vance. Also, cancel the automatic monthly utility transfers starting tonight.”
*“Confirmed, Mr. Vance. The paperwork will be filed with the county clerk first thing Monday morning. Good afternoon.”*
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I tapped the screen, hanging up the call.
The silence in the event garden was absolute, heavy, and crushing. You could hear the distant hum of traffic on the highway, but under the white tent, nobody dared to breathe.
