Chapter 9 - The Eviction of the Enablers
Z
The final remnant of the old Sterling dynasty was the massive, sprawling limestone mansion on Strait Lane in Dallas. The house had six bedrooms, eight bathrooms, a commercial wine cellar, and a four-car garage that had once housed my father's collection of vintage sports cars.
However, because Arthur had taken out three fraudulent secondary mortgages on the property using falsified corporate guarantees from Sterling Events, the federal bankruptcy court had officially seized the deed to satisfy creditor claims and restitution orders.
Through our corporate legal entity, I purchased the senior mortgage note from the bank at auction, taking full legal ownership of the property.
On a cold morning in November, I stood at the end of the long cobblestone driveway next to two county constables and a moving crew. Parked on the curb was an old, beat-up sedan belonging to my mother.
Eleanor Sterling Senior stood on the grand marble front porch, surrounded by dozens of cardboard moving boxes and taped garment bags. She looked completely broken. The grand socialite who once hosted charity galas for three hundred people was now wearing a worn cardigan and sensible flat shoes.
"Ellie!" Mom cried out as I walked up the limestone steps. "You can't do this! This is my home! I designed these gardens! I chose the marble in the foyer! Your father and I lived here for twenty-five years!"
"You lived here on money that was stolen from vendors, banks, and my company," I said, handing the certified eviction order to the lead constable. "The court granted you sixty days to vacate. That deadline expired yesterday at 5:00 PM."
"Where am I supposed to go?" she wept, clutching a framed oil portrait of herself that she had taken down from the dining room wall. "Your father gets released from Bastrop next month. Where is he supposed to sleep? How are we supposed to survive on his tiny social security check?"
"You have the rental in Garland," I said calmly. "And you have your retail job. You will survive the same way millions of ordinary, hardworking people survive every single day—by living within your means."
"We are your parents!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the limestone facade. "You have millions now! You’re expanding into New York and London! Would it kill you to let us stay in the guest house? To give us a monthly allowance? Are you really this cold-blooded?"
I stopped and looked at her, remembering the night before the wedding—remembering the recorded voice memo where she coldly coached Camille to tell police that I was an unstable, bitter liar who belonged in an institution.
"When you tried to send me to a federal prison to protect Camille's vanity, you gave up the right to call yourself my mother," I said, my voice completely devoid of warmth. "You didn't care if I had a roof over my head. You didn't care if my entire life was destroyed. The only reason you're standing on this porch instead of sitting in a prison cell next to your daughter is because you were too cowardly to put your own name on the bank transfers."
The lead constable stepped forward, his hand resting on his utility belt. "Ma'am, the moving crew is going to load the remainder of your approved personal belongings into the truck now. You need to step off the premises."
Mom stared at me with pure, impotent fury. She realized, finally, that there were no more levers to pull, no more guilt trips to exploit, and no more tears that could alter the outcome. She snatched her purse, grabbed her portrait, and walked down the grand steps toward her rusted car.
I watched the sedan pull out of the iron gates and disappear down the street.
May you like
I turned to the moving supervisor. "Change the exterior security codes immediately. We’re listing the property on the open market tomorrow morning, and all proceeds will be placed into the employee healthcare endowment fund."
The house was empty. The ghost of my childhood had finally been exorcised.
