The eviction notice was taped to my front door when I returned from the community garden.
I still had dirt beneath my fingernails.
A bag of tomatoes hung from one hand.
At first, I assumed there had been some mistake.
I stood on the porch and read the address at the top of the paper.
Then I read it again.
1120 Ellsworth Street.
My address.
My home.
The house where I had lived for forty-four years.
The house where my late husband, Samuel, and I had raised our children.
The house where we had celebrated birthdays, holidays, graduations and countless ordinary evenings together.
The house we had worked for decades to finally own outright.
Yet the paper in my hand ordered me to leave within thirty days.
I was seventy-one years old.
And the person behind the eviction was my own son.
His name was Emeka.
I called him immediately.
“Emeka,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “what is this?”
There was no surprise in his voice.
No panic.
No apology.
He simply told me that he intended to sell the property.
I remember sitting down on the porch steps.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t find the words.
“How can you sell my house?”
His answer was calm.
He told me the property was in his name.
He said he had the legal authority to make decisions about it.
And then he said something that hurt more than the eviction notice itself.
He told me that I needed to be realistic.
At seventy-one, my own son was telling me to leave the home I had spent decades helping to build.
