I drove to the diner two miles down the coast road, sat in a booth by the window, and made the call I never imagined I would have to make about my own home. Not to my son. To the county sheriff’s non-emergency line. Because the house was mine, solely mine, deed and mortgage and property tax all in my name alone, and the crowd Vanessa had installed there were trespassers the moment I asked them to leave and they refused. The deputy who took my information was kind. He asked whether I had proof of ownership. I told him I had the deed in my glovebox, the way I had carried it for years, because a woman who buys the first thing that ever truly belongs to her does not leave the papers behind.

While I waited, I made a second call, this one to my attorney, who had drawn up my will and knew that house meant more to me than anything I owned. I told her what Vanessa had said, the crowd, the cigarette on my balcony, the teenager asking why I didn’t just get a hotel. She was quiet for a moment. Then she said the words that steadied me. “They have no legal right to be there, and your son has no authority to have invited them. Say the word and I’ll have a formal notice drafted tonight.” I looked out the diner window at the sun beginning to lower over the water, the same water I had bought this house to sit beside in peace. Then I gave her the word, finished my tea, and drove back toward my home with a sheriff’s deputy already on the way.