At 6 a.m., heavy pounding rattled my door. A sheriff’s deputy stood outside with an eviction order — my name printed across it like I was a stranger trespassing in my own home. Across the street, my parents watched in silence. My mother called out, “You should’ve listened to me.” My father added, “Start packing.”
I asked the deputy who filed it.
He paused. “Your son. Marcus Ward.”
My world tilted.
I’ve lived in this house for 23 years. I bought it after my divorce and paid off the mortgage five years ago. Marcus, now 32, moved back in three years ago after losing his job. He never left — no rent, no contributions, just excuses. When I finally told him it was time to move out, he asked me to put the house in both our names. I refused.
Weeks later, the deputy was at my door with papers claiming Marcus owned my home — including a deed with my forged signature.
I contacted an attorney immediately. At the hearing, the truth came out: the signature was fake, and the notary stamp belonged to someone who had been dead for two years.
The eviction was dismissed. The deed voided. Marcus was charged with forgery and fraud.
I changed the locks and installed a security system.
My parents blame me for “ruining his life.” But I didn’t.
He tried to steal mine.
That morning taught me something important: enabling isn’t love — and the people who try to take your home aren’t family. They’re trespassers.
