“Did anyone,” I asked slowly, “actually check what Grandpa wrote in the trust documents? Have you read them recently?”
Mom waved a hand dismissively. “Your father manages the trust. He knows what’s appropriate.”
“I’d still like to see the actual documents,” I said.
“Cassie, don’t be difficult.” Dad’s voice dropped to that warning register that used to stop me mid-tantrum when I was eight years old. “This is already decided. Eric and Shannon will move in November first. You need to make arrangements.”
I stood up, my legs feeling strange and hollow beneath me.
“All right,” I said, because picking a fight in this room had never once ended with me winning anything. “Then I’d like to formally request copies of the trust documents, the building deed, and any paperwork establishing the family’s authority to terminate my residency.”
Dad’s face reddened, color creeping up from his collar like a rising tide. “You don’t need paperwork. I’m telling you as your father and as the trust manager.”
“Then as the current resident,” I replied, voice steady despite my racing heart, “I’m requesting formal documentation of this eviction.”
“It’s not an eviction,” Mom said shrilly, her composure cracking. “It’s family helping family.”
“Then there should be documentation of the terms,” I said simply.
