“I thought you’d come to your senses,” he says.

When the knock comes twelve minutes later, loud and authoritative, something inside me unclenches. Two officers stand in the hall, hands resting casually near their belts, faces politely neutral.

“Ma’am? You reported trespassing?”

“Yes,” I say, stepping aside so they can see Eric in the middle of my half-packed life.

He jumps in immediately. “This is just a family misunderstanding, officers,” he says, layering on the charm. “This apartment is supposed to be mine. We’re just sorting out the details.”

“Do you live here, sir?” one of the officers asks.

“I will,” Eric says. “Soon. My dad owns the building—”

“I own the building,” I cut in. My hands are shaking now, but my voice is steady. “Here are my ownership documents and ID. And this is the cease-and-desist notice my attorney sent him regarding unauthorized entry.”

The taller officer takes the papers, skims them quickly, then hands them to his partner. They exchange a look that says we see this kind of family nonsense all the time.

“Sir, you need to leave the premises now,” the shorter officer says. “If you return without the owner’s explicit permission, you’ll be arrested for trespassing.”

Eric’s face goes red. “You can’t be serious. She’s my sister!”

“And this is her apartment,” the officer says calmly. “Her name is on the deed. You’ve been notified in writing that you’re not allowed here. Right now, we’re giving you a chance to leave without being arrested. I suggest you take it.”

For a moment, I think Eric is going to push it. Then his shoulders slump. He drops the sweater he’d been holding into the half-packed box and storms past me toward the door.

“This isn’t over,” he hisses as he passes.

“Actually,” I say quietly, “I think it is.”

After they leave, one of the officers lingers.

“Ms. Morrison,” he says, “given the previous incidents and this one, you might want to consider a restraining order if this continues.”

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” I say, though the idea doesn’t sound as extreme as it would have once. “I’m changing the locks.”

“Good plan,” he says. “Good luck.”

That afternoon, I have a locksmith out within hours. The emergency key in my parents’ kitchen junk drawer is now nothing but a piece of sentimental metal. I notify building security that under no circumstances are my parents or my brother allowed access to the building without my prior written consent.

The weekend is a blur of ringing phones and vibrating notifications. I turn my ringer off, put my phone face-down on the counter, and spend two hours re-folding everything Eric crammed into boxes.

Some of my favorite mugs are chipped. One of my framed prints has a new crack in the glass. It feels like a metaphor.

By Sunday night, the extended family has gotten involved.

Aunt Linda calls and leaves a voicemail that starts with, “Oh my God, Cassie, your father is losing his mind,” followed by delighted cackling. “Your grandfather always knew exactly what he was doing, the old fox. Call me if you want to hear some stories about the way he outmaneuvered your dad in the eighties.”

My Uncle Jeff texts:

I don’t know what’s really going on, but your mom is in tears and your dad says you cheated him out of the building. Is that true?

I stare at the screen for a moment, then type back:

No. Grandpa made a legal decision. The court will confirm that if Dad keeps pushing.

Jeff doesn’t reply.

Some cousins DM me with variations of, Heard you kicked Eric out with the cops. Savage, lol. At least someone’s entertained.

Monday morning, Patricia calls.

“We have a situation,” she says.

“Only one?” I ask dryly.

“Your father filed a petition to contest the property transfer,” she says. “He’s claiming your grandfather was unduly influenced or mentally incompetent when he amended the trust.”

I close my eyes. “Of course he is.”

“His case is weak,” she says. “We have medical records showing your grandfather was of sound mind at the time of the amendment, the attorney’s notes, and a clear timeline. But it will be expensive and time-consuming to defend.”

“Do it anyway,” I say. “We’re not backing down.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she says.

The court process takes three months.

Three months of filings and counter-filings, of affidavits and medical documentation and statements from Grandpa’s attorney. Three months of me sitting across from Patricia in her office, going over every detail of the timeline, every conversation I can remember having with Grandpa about the building.

I don’t speak to my parents during this time. If they text, it’s through Patricia or about some minor thing like “Your mother’s birthday dinner is Sunday, are you coming?” to which I respond, I’m not comfortable attending right now. Please contact my attorney for any further discussion about the building.

Shannon sends a few texts on her own.

I’m really sorry about Eric, one says. He’s under a lot of stress. I know that’s not an excuse, but the baby’s coming and he’s scared.

Another: I didn’t know he was going to break into your place. I told him it was a bad idea.

I reply politely, keeping it surface-level. I appreciate you saying that. I hope the pregnancy is going smoothly.

She sends a picture a few weeks later of a blurry ultrasound with the caption, It’s a girl. I stare at it longer than I mean to, then type, Congratulations, before locking my phone and setting it aside.

The family splits into camps, each with their own spin on events.

Dad’s version is that I manipulated a dying old man into giving me the building, then hid the paperwork to steal it from the family. In this story, he’s the responsible patriarch trying to correct an injustice. I am the ungrateful daughter corrupted by greed.

Grandpa’s attorney, a white-haired man named Simon with a dry sense of humor, sits in Patricia’s office one afternoon and looks genuinely offended by this idea.