I forwarded everything to a private email address and then to Geneva. Then to my attorney, Sarah Lawson, with one line: “Call me. Emergency.”
I didn’t confront anyone yet. I threw up first.
Tuesday afternoon, Terry finally arrived with deli bags and a grin like he was bringing peace offerings.
“Mama! There’s my favorite lady,” he said, hugging me like nothing had happened.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“Sure,” he replied, then clapped his hands like a manager. “But first, family meeting. Got exciting news.”
He gathered everybody and announced, “We’re throwing a beach party Saturday. Big cookout. About forty people.”
“Forty?” I repeated.
“Already invited,” he said, showing me the Facebook event. My address was listed.
Briana handed me another list—steaks, lobster tails, premium beer, top-shelf liquor.
“This is at least eight hundred dollars,” I said.
“For forty people,” Terry replied, like I was slow. “Networking, Mama. Investment.”
That’s when I stood up and said it out loud in front of all of them: “I read your emails.”
Terry’s face changed. Then he tried to turn it around. “You went through my private communications?”
“You went through mine,” I said, holding my voice steady. “On my laptop. In my house.”
“Everybody calm down,” Briana said with a smile that was all teeth. “Ms. Moore, maybe you’re confused. Maybe you need to rest.”
“I’m not confused,” I said. “I want all of you out of my house.”
Terry’s voice dropped. “We’re here until next Sunday.”
I walked to the front door and opened it. “If you’re not out by tonight, I’m calling the police.”
I didn’t call that night—because Joyce yelled, Briana cried, kids got scared, and forty years of being the peacemaker doesn’t evaporate in one boundary. Terry told me to “sleep on it.” I did.
Saturday arrived anyway.
A catering truck showed up at noon—Premium Coastal Catering, the kind I recognized from corporate events. Terry had said burgers and hot dogs. This looked like a $5,000 setup before a single tray hit my deck.
“Terry,” I said, grabbing his arm, “who’s paying for this?”
“Relax, Mama,” he said, kissing my cheek. “It’s handled.”
By 2:00 p.m., my house was full of strangers mixing drinks at my bar like it was theirs. Terry stood on my deck with a microphone and toasted, “Welcome to our family beach house.”
Our.
That word did something to me. It peeled back the last layer of denial I had left.
