Under Dorian’s plate was a letter from a tenants’ rights attorney Adelaide had contacted that morning. Attached was a copy of my lease with several sections highlighted: the basement unit was rented to me for my exclusive use, and Dorian’s ownership of the house did not automatically give him permission to enter whenever he wanted. Grandma had also helped me organize grocery receipts, photos, messages, and dates documenting every time food disappeared or Dorian threatened my housing when I complained.

His face changed because the letter demanded that the unauthorized entries stop immediately and that he reimburse the documented food he had taken. If he continued, my attorney would help me pursue whatever remedies were available under the lease and local law. Adelaide had already helped me secure another apartment, so his favorite threat—“There are thirty people waiting for this room”—no longer frightened me.
Dorian suddenly insisted everything had been a misunderstanding. Corinne looked embarrassed and quietly asked why he had ever gone into my apartment without permission.

I moved out properly at the end of my notice period.

Before Grandma left, Dorian apologized and offered to let me stay.

Adelaide smiled.

“No, thank you. You confused owning a building with owning the person paying to live inside it.”

For once, Dorian had nothing clever to say.