By the middle of the afternoon, the penthouse looked nothing like the home Wesley had left behind because every single one of his items had been inventoried and packed into boxes. With the landlord’s full legal permission, I had the main locks replaced, and I left a single blue folder on the entryway table containing copies of our bank records and a short note.
The note simply stated that anything that cannot be discussed with mutual respect will eventually be resolved through decisive action. Around eight in the evening, I heard the elevator chime in the hallway, followed by Beulah’s loud complaints and Gwen’s high-pitched laughter as they approached the door.
I heard Wesley fumble with his key, trying desperately to turn a lock that no longer accepted his presence, before he began pounding on the door in frustration. When I finally swung the door open, he stood there staring at an empty hallway and his own suitcases neatly lined up against the wall while a locksmith packed up his gear.
Wesley’s face drained of all color as he stammered, “Andrea, what in the world have you done to our home?” I stood firmly in the doorway without raising my voice, resting my hand on the blue folder while his mother transitioned from an air of arrogance to pure bewilderment.
Gwen stood there with two massive suitcases and a garment bag, letting out a nervous, high-pitched giggle as if she expected me to tell them it was all a joke. Wesley tried to barge past me into the apartment, but the locksmith blocked his path with a professional stare and told him that access was only granted to the legal contract holder.
“And exactly whose name is on this contract?” Beulah snapped at me with a venomous glare. I pulled the first document from the folder and showed them the lease, explaining that I had paid the vast majority of the rent while Wesley had stopped contributing entirely over a year ago.
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