Part 1

The eviction notice was attached to my own front door with a strip of blue painter’s tape. For one strange second, before I understood what I was reading, I noticed that my son had at least chosen tape that would not damage the paint. It was a Tuesday afternoon in early October. I had just returned from my community garden carrying a bag of tomatoes when I found the notice ordering me to leave 1120 Ellsworth Street within thirty days. I had purchased that house with my late husband in 1979. We had paid off the mortgage in 2004. And at seventy-one years old, I was being evicted from it by my own son. My name is Constance Ojo, and to explain how this happened, I must begin eight months earlier, when I made the worst decision of my life because I believed I was protecting everything my husband and I had worked for.

Samuel and I had built our lives through decades of sacrifice, raising our children inside that little brick house filled with memories. After his death, the house became my greatest comfort. My daughter, Adaeze, remained loving and supportive, but my son, Emeka, constantly searched for shortcuts to success. When he suggested transferring my home into his name to shield it from future nursing-home expenses, he promised nothing would ever change. Trusting him completely, I signed the documents prepared by his lawyer without realizing they contained no written protection for my right to stay. Months later, Emeka began referring to it as “his house,” while his wife discussed selling it. The day I understood I had unknowingly surrendered ownership, I looked into my son’s eyes as he quietly reached into his briefcase and removed another envelope.