Chapter 13 - The Empty Garage
Wednesday evening, Mrs. Daley sent me a photograph. A moving truck sat in Mom's driveway. Men were carrying dining-room chairs toward its open back.
I recognized the one with the repaired leg.
Mom saw the picture over my shoulder. "That's my chair."
I called June, who had already sent the title company our formal objections and was seeking an emergency order to preserve Mom's property. She warned me not to charge into a confrontation.
"It's a family residence, and they're claiming a right to occupy it," she said. "We need a lawful way to stop property from disappearing."
Mrs. Daley kept watching from her porch. The movers loaded boxes, a lamp, and the dining table Dad had built. She photographed the truck's company name and plate. The moving company later told June it had been hired for a storage job, with Daphne listed as the customer.
Mom sat by my window holding a mug she hadn't touched.
"Your dad cut that table from boards he salvaged after the old mill closed," she said. "He made enough chairs for us and anybody who came hungry."
"We'll try to get it back."
"I'm not talking about the wood. I let them convince me I was a burden. I started believing them."
"Mom—"
"Don't interrupt. I'm trying to say something brave."
I waited.
"Even if I never get that table back," she said, "I want to tell the judge what happened. I don't want to be afraid of my own voice anymore."
At nine, Nico left me a voicemail. He said the furniture was being moved because Daphne had arranged a buyer. He also said he wasn't going to court.
"I can't stand up there against my wife," he muttered. "You don't understand what she'll do."
As I replayed it, a second message arrived, this one from an unfamiliar number.
May you like
It was a picture of Mom's chair standing alone beside a dumpster.
Under it were four words: COME GET YOUR JUNK.
