David listened without interrupting as I explained everything, the four months of slow erasure, the facedown photographs, the nursery they built without asking, the morning I was told to stay out of my own kitchen. When I finished, he was quiet for a moment, then said the words I had needed to hear from someone. “Marlene, they’re not tenants. There’s no lease. In Texas, that makes them licensees, and a licensee can be asked to leave with proper written notice.” I gripped the pen a little tighter. He told me he would draft a formal notice to vacate that very afternoon, along with something else, a demand for reimbursement of every dollar I had spent supporting them since they moved in.

By evening, a courier had delivered a crisp envelope to my door, and I set it on the kitchen counter where the chipped blue mug still sat drying in the rack. I did not raise my voice. I did not argue. I simply went to bed knowing that for the first time in four months, the morning would belong to me again. The next day, Brittany walked into the kitchen in my pale-blue apron, saw the envelope with her name and Cameron’s printed across the front, and called out sharply for my son. When Cameron opened it and read the letterhead of a law firm, his face finally lifted from his phone. It stayed lifted this time.