Chapter 5: The Call to Counsel
I called my attorney at 8:47 the next morning from the kitchen table.
The girls were still asleep down the hall. I had the beige handbag open beside my coffee, the folders fanned out just enough that I could see the corners of the papers without touching them again. My phone sat on speaker. I watched the steam come off the mug and listened to it ring.
He picked up on the third ring. "You're up early," he said.
I told him I needed ten minutes. Not on the phone if he could do in person. He said he had a window at nine-thirty before court. Same building as yesterday. I said I'd be there.
I didn't change out of what I'd slept in. I pulled on jeans and a sweater, left the gown hanging on the back of the bathroom door where I'd put it the night before. The girls were stirring when I stepped into their room. My older one sat up and rubbed her eyes.
"I have to run to Mr. Ellis's office," I said. "Same place as yesterday. I'll be back before school drop-off. Don't open the door for anyone, okay?"
She nodded. The younger one was still curled around the pink bunny. I kissed both of them on the head and left the apartment door locked behind me.
The high-rise lobby was quieter at nine-thirty than it had been in the afternoon. The same receptionist buzzed me through. Mr. Ellis's conference room faced the same skyline, the city bright and hard in morning light. He was already there with a legal pad and the file from yesterday still on the table.
He didn't ask how I was feeling. He slid the file toward me.
"You took photos," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I did," I said. I set my phone on the glass and scrolled to the first one. The deed. The title. The quitclaim he signed eighteen months ago when we refinanced to get his business loan through. "Tell me I'm reading this right."
He pulled reading glasses from his shirt pocket and looked. He tapped the top page with his pen.
"You are," he said. "Parcel number matches the house on Laurel. Warranty deed recorded March of last year. Sole owner — you. He executed a quitclaim for consideration. It's recorded with the county. The mortgage is in both names, but title is in yours alone."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. It was quiet.
"And the keys?" I asked.
He looked up at me over his glasses. "Keys are just access. They don't convey title. He can have every copy made at the hardware store. It doesn't give him an ownership interest."
My hands were flat on the table. I kept them still.
"So what he said yesterday — that they're my responsibility now, that he wants —" I stopped. "Does any of that change this?"
"No," he said. "Custody language from yesterday is binding for the girls. He stipulated sole physical and legal to you. But property is separate. Occupancy is permissive. He's living in your house. So is his girlfriend."
The word girlfriend landed flat in the room. I didn't correct him. Pregnant woman, new partner — it didn't matter what we called her.
"He thinks because he has the keys, he owns it," I said.
"He thinks a lot of things," Ellis said, and then caught himself. "Sorry. Professionally speaking — many people confuse possession with ownership. Courts don't."
He flipped to a second page in the file, a memo he'd typed that morning.
"Here's where I have to warn you," he said. "You own it, but you can't just change the locks while they're living there. Not with her being pregnant and residing there. California requires proper notice. If you want exclusive possession, we do it by the book. Written notice to vacate. Proper service. Timeline. No self-help. No shouting. No moving their things to the curb. You do that and you give him a claim against you."
I nodded. I had pictured exactly that the night before — standing in the driveway with a locksmith. The image faded.
"How long does notice take?" I asked.
"Thirty days if they've been there under a year, sixty if over. They've been there since February, so thirty will hold if we file this week. But we can also offer a cash-for-keys agreement if you want them out faster and cleaner. It's your call. Either way, we document everything."
I thought about the girls' school. It was zoned for Laurel. If I moved them now, they'd have to switch mid-year. If I waited and did this quietly, they could stay.
"I want the girls stable," I said. "I want them in their school. I don't want them watching a fight on the front lawn."
"Then we do paper, not drama," he said. He slid the legal pad toward me. "We prepare a notice to vacate directed to both occupants. We serve it properly. We don't engage about the baby, the comments in the office, any of that. We keep custody and property on separate tracks. You don't text him about the house. You don't discuss it through the girls. All communication through me."
I picked up his pen. It was heavy.
"And if he ignores it?" I asked.
"Then we file for an unlawful detainer. But he won't ignore it once he realizes the deed is recorded. Most people don't. That stunned look you saw yesterday — he'll get it again, on paper."
I signed the engagement letter where he flagged it. My signature looked small.
May you like
On the elevator down, I texted the sitter that I'd be home in ten. The city slid past the glass. I didn't feel triumphant. I felt the quiet click of something settling into place, like a lock turning the right way for once.
I had the keys in my handbag, but now I knew I didn't need them.
