“I am the owner of your mortgage, Gloria.”

I could hear her breathing over the line, shallow and fast.

“You?” she hissed. “You don’t have a dime that didn’t come from my son.”

“Your son has been broke for three years,” I said.

“He survived on the allowance I chose to give him through my shell corporations.”

“But that allowance has officially ended.”

“This is absurd,” she gasped. “Graham will have you arrested.”

“Graham is currently at his office trying to figure out how to avoid federal indictment for bank fraud,” I said.

“And you have exactly twenty-four hours to pack your personal belongings.”

“I am sending movers tomorrow morning to clear out the house.”

“You cannot do this to us,” she whimpered. “We are the Ralstons.”

“Not anymore,” I said.

I hung up the phone.

I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the cold quartz countertop.

Through the window, I watched Hazel and Ruby running across the green lawn of our new backyard.

They looked free.

I called Carlos, who was waiting in the driveway.