Vivian’s machinations didn’t stop at social ostracism. A few weeks later, a formal eviction notice arrived for our small apartment. It claimed overdue rent and damages that were clearly fabricated.
The landlord, a usually placid man, looked away when I tried to protest. “It’s out of my hands, Ms. Petrov,” he mumbled, refusing to meet my eyes.
He handed me a paper, listing Ms. Eleanor Finch as the notary who had processed the documents. Her name again.
The moving day was a blur of cardboard boxes and the harsh sounds of tape ripping. This apartment, small as it was, had been my late husband’s, Leo’s father. It was a last tie to him.
Amidst the chaos, Leo suddenly stopped. His eyes glazed over, fixed on a corner of the living room, near a faded stain on the carpet.
“Mama, wait,” he said, his voice urgent. “It’s here. I know it.”
He began to push aside a pile of blankets, frantically searching. I was overwhelmed and snapped at him.
“Leo, please! We don’t have time for your fantasies now.”
He didn’t listen. His small, determined fingers found a loose floorboard. With a grunt, he pried it up.
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