I wrote “ABSOLUTELY NOT” across the page, opened the door two inches with the chain still on, and shoved it back. Arthur read it and exploded.
“You selfish, ungrateful little bastard! I am your father. You owe me your life!”
“I’m thirty-six years old. I owe you nothing. Get off my property.”
Then a white locksmith van pulled into the driveway. Arthur waved cash at the driver, who stepped out with a drill. I ran to the window and shouted.
“Do not touch that door!”
Arthur shouted over me.
“My son is unstable. He locked himself in. Drill the lock. I’ll pay double.”
“I am the legal homeowner,” I yelled. “That man is trespassing. If you damage my lock, I will take legal action.”
The locksmith backed away immediately.
“No proof, no service. Call the police.”
He left. Arthur, shaking with rage, grabbed a ceramic garden gnome and threw it at my window. It cracked the glass. That was the end. This was no longer family drama. It was property damage. I called 911.
