In month four, Brent texted me from a friend’s phone.
His usual arrogance had turned into something strange. A mix of legal threats and wounded pride.
“You can’t just abandon a legal obligation, Naomi. I talked to a lawyer online. What you did is called constructive eviction. You forced us out of our standard of living with no notice. You could get sued.”
I laughed out loud on my balcony. A pigeon flew away.
Constructive eviction. From the person who was paying for everything out of charity. The person he’d thrown into the rain.
I forwarded the message to Sarah. She replied in ten minutes.
“Constructive eviction is a claim a tenant brings against a landlord. You were never his landlord. You were never anyone’s landlord. You have no contract, no lease, and no obligation. If he files anything, it will be dismissed, and I’ll ask the court to make him pay your legal fees. Also, please tell him that ‘a lawyer online’ is not a lawyer.”
I didn’t tell him anything. I just saved Sarah’s email.
In month five, the high-speed fiber internet went dark.
I knew because it was the first message in my folder that came in all capital letters.
“THEY SHUT OFF THE INTERNET. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW. I CANT STREAM. I HAVE SUBSCRIBERS NAOMI. PEOPLE DEPEND ON ME.”
For Brent, losing the internet was like losing oxygen. He couldn’t stream. He couldn’t play his tournaments. He couldn’t download his game updates. He couldn’t browse forums all night while the rest of the world worked.
He bought a prepaid data plan for his phone. According to my mother’s next message, it ran out in two days.
In month six, winter came to Illinois.
My mother couldn’t pay the $400 heating bill, so she turned the thermostat down to fifty degrees. Then the gas company shut off service entirely for nonpayment. The tankless water heater I’d paid to install two years earlier stopped working.
“We’re boiling water on a hot plate to wash,” she wrote. “Brent says it’s like living in the Stone Age. Please, Naomi. It’s so cold.”
I read that one twice.
For a long time, that sentence would have destroyed me. I would have bought a plane ticket that same night. I would have flown home and paid the gas bill and the electric bill and the internet bill and apologized for leaving in the first place.
I set down my phone. I looked out at the Tagus River glittering in the late-afternoon sun.
Then I picked it back up and wrote one sentence. The first message I’d sent to my mother since I left.
“Mom, the Illinois Department of Human Services has an energy assistance program for seniors on fixed incomes. Call 211 and they will help you apply.”
I sent it. I closed my email. And I went inside and called Inês about a server migration.
I wasn’t heartless. I just wasn’t her wallet anymore.
Specialty: Legal & Financial Drama
Michael Carter covers stories where money, power, and personal history collide. His writing often explores courtroom battles, business conflicts, and the subtle strategies people use when pushed into a corner. He focuses on grounded, realistic storytelling with attention to detail and believable motivations.