He listened intently, his furrowed brow deepening with every word. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair, a shrewd expression growing on his face. “Well, Margaret,” he said, reaching for a thick file, “it’s time we remind them of the ironclad will your husband left behind. Sierra and her entourage are trespassing, and you have every right to evict them. Let’s set the wheels in motion.”

With a few swift strokes of his pen, legal notices were prepared. I felt a sense of empowerment as I signed them, each flourish of ink a step closer to justice. I wasn’t merely evicting ungrateful squatters; I was reclaiming my dignity, my life’s work. My husband and I had built that estate from the ground up, brick by brick, and no one would take it from me without a fight.

Next, I reached out to a trusted security firm, arranging for a team to secure the property. I wanted a peaceful reclaiming, but I was prepared for resistance. The estate would be locked down, the revelry halted, and my sanctuary restored.