Chapter 2 - The Architect of Displacement
Gloria Mendez did not look like a woman who moved houses,
she looked like a woman who moved mountains.
Her office in downtown Chicago was sharp and modern,
filled with glass and chrome and the quiet hum of power.
She read Ethan’s text messages with a look of profound,
dispassionate boredom.
"Cruelty is a very common trait in men who find themselves suddenly wealthy,"
she said,
dropping the phone onto her desk.
"They think money buys them a new soul,
but it usually just pays for a faster way to lose the old one."
I handed her the deed to the property,
the paper feeling crisp and vital in my hands.
"He told me to be out,"
I said,
my voice sounding stronger than it had in weeks.
"He wants the children to come home to a house without their mother."
Gloria leaned back,
tapping a gold pen against her chin.
"The law is very clear on abandonment,
Natalie.
He has left the marital home,
taken the children out of the country without a formal custody agreement,
and ordered you to vacate in writing.
Technically,
he has surrendered his right to possession."
I nodded,
but I wasn't interested in just living in the house while he fought me in court.
I wanted to be gone,
really gone.
"Can I move it?"
I asked.
Gloria paused,
her eyebrows shooting up.
"The house?"
"The house,"
I repeated.
"The land is mine.
The house is a chattel,
an improvement on the land.
If I decide to renovate the property,
if I decide the lot needs to be cleared,
that is my right as the sole owner."
Gloria’s lips curved into a slow,
dangerous smile.
"It is a bold move,
Natalie.
Extremely expensive.
Extremely complicated."
"I have the inheritance from my father,"
I replied.
"It was meant for my future.
I think my future starts with an empty lot."
We spent the next four hours mapping out the logistics.
The house was a modular-hybrid,
built with a steel frame that my father had insisted on for durability.
It was designed to be sturdy,
but it was also designed in a way that allowed it to be separated from its foundation with the right equipment.
I contacted "Continental Structural Movers,"
a company that specialized in moving historic buildings and mansions.
The foreman,
a man named Roy who smelled of diesel and tobacco,
met me at the property the following morning.
"It's a big girl,"
Roy said,
patting the cedar siding.
"But she’s solid.
We can have her up on the jacks by Tuesday.
We'll need to clear the utility lines and get a permit for the wide-load transport."
I looked at the driveway,
at the flower beds I had planted,
at the mailbox with our name on it.
"Do it,"
I said.
"I want her moved to the new plot by Friday."
I had purchased a small,
beautiful piece of land twenty miles away,
near the lake.
It was a fresh start,
in every sense of the word.
Roy nodded,
spitting a bit of sunflower seed onto the grass.
"You're the boss,
lady.
But you know he’s going to be real surprised when he gets back from Italy."
"That,"
May you like
I said,
"is the entire point."
