When I Arrived At My Vacation House, A Notice Was Taped To The Door: “Move-Out Notice In 14 Days.” My Name Was Printed Underneath—Listed As “Not Authorized To Occupy.” I Called My Mother. She Just Laughed: “You Wouldn’t Help With Our Debt. Now You Lose This Too.” At The County Courthouse, The Clerk Typed The Case Number, Paused—Then Went Still. “Hold Placed,” She Whispered. “This Paperwork Doesn’t Match Our Records.” Then She Slid The Paper Back And Said Quietly: “Go There. Right Now.” …but As Soon As I Pulled Into The Driveway…

The clerk hesitated, then turned her screen a few degrees so we could see without the whole lobby seeing. My stomach dropped when I read it. Hearing tomorrow, 9:00 a.m.

Mariah swore under her breath. The deputy went still. “So they told her fourteen days,” he said, “but they scheduled an emergency hearing for tomorrow.”

The clerk nodded.

I felt dizzy, like the ground had shifted under my feet and nobody warned me. “Why would they do that?” I asked. The clerk’s eyes flicked to me, tired and sharp.

“Because if you don’t show up,” she whispered, “they try to get a default order.”

“Then they walk into your driveway with paper that looks final.”

The deputy’s jaw tightened. “And you said it’s on restricted hold for suspected forgery.”

The clerk nodded. “It is.

The hold was placed because the filing had multiple red flags.”

“What kind of red flags?” the deputy asked. The clerk clicked into the notes. Then she inhaled slowly and looked up at me like she didn’t want to say it.

“The signature on the supporting affidavit,” she said, “is from a notary commission that doesn’t exist.”

My stomach flipped. Fake notary. “Suspected,” she corrected carefully.

Then she added, quieter, “And the filing used a contact email that doesn’t match the plaintiff’s normal identity trail.”

The deputy leaned in. “Show me.”

The clerk hesitated. Then she typed something, clicked once, and printed a single page.

She slid it under the glass. Not to me. To the deputy.

He read it. I watched his expression tighten in a way that had nothing to do with tenant disputes. Because the page didn’t just show my parents’ names.

It showed the filer account. And the filer account wasn’t my mother. It wasn’t my father.

It was me. My name. My email.

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