“There’s a hotel.”
“I saw.”
“Did you know when you called me?”
“I suspected you would find several charges of interest.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because people absorb facts differently when they discover them themselves.”
I almost smiled. “That sounds like something Margaret would say.”
“Margaret was a sensible woman.”
“She liked you.”
“She had excellent judgment.”
I looked at the circled charge until the ink blurred slightly.
“What next?”
“I recommend you speak with an attorney or a housing specialist before issuing formal notice.”
“They don’t have a lease.”
“Still.”
“They don’t pay rent.”
“Still.”
“They left.”
“Still.”
I sighed.
“You’re enjoying that word.”
“I am protecting you with that word.”
By the afternoon, she had given me the name of a paralegal named Denise Hall who had handled property notices for half the town at one time or another. Denise worked out of a narrow office between a barber shop and a tax preparer. She had silver hair cut bluntly at her chin, red reading glasses, and a way of speaking that made unnecessary drama feel embarrassing.
I brought the note, the account statements, and a written summary of the living arrangement.
Denise read everything twice.
“They live with you in a house you own.”
“Yes.”
“No lease.”
“No.”
“No rent.”
“No.”
“No written agreement giving them long-term occupancy.”
“No.”
She looked at me over her glasses.
“And you want them out.”
“I want my house back.”
“Cleaner sentence,” she said. “Use that.”
She drafted a formal notice giving Owen and Priya thirty days from January 1 to retrieve remaining belongings and vacate any claimed occupancy. She advised sending it by certified mail to Priya’s parents’ address, Owen’s email, and text attachment. She told me not to argue by phone.
“People like to pull you into conversations so they can later remember them differently,” she said.
“That seems to be a theme lately.”
“Usually is.”
Before I left, she tapped the note Owen had left on my counter.
“Keep this.”
“I planned to.”
“No. I mean keep the original somewhere safe. This is not just a note. It establishes they left voluntarily for an extended period without providing you plans or contact details.”
I looked down at the folded paper.
Merry Christmas.
“All right,” I said.
The fourth thing I did was call an estate appraisal company. Not to sell everything. Not yet. I wanted documentation of what was in the house and what belonged to me before anyone returned and claimed confusion. A woman named Gwendolyn arrived on the twenty-eighth with a camera, a tablet, and the calm neutrality of someone who had walked through many homes after many family disappointments.
She photographed Margaret’s china cabinet, my father’s side table, the dining set, artwork, tools in the garage, the snowblower, the patio furniture, even the boxes Owen and Priya had left behind.
“Family situation?” she asked once, not looking at me as she labeled a photo.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“I’ll be thorough.”