I Came Home to Find My Workshop Padlocked – My Daughter-in-Law Had Turned It Into a Nursery. She…

The Shattered Sanctuary

I came home from three weeks at my brother’s place to find the workshop door padlocked. It was not my padlock, but a shiny new Master Lock that I definitely didn’t buy and definitely didn’t install.

My brother Ray had just survived a triple bypass surgery in Phoenix. I’d driven the 18 hours to help his wife manage while he recovered.

I walked around to the side window of my workshop and looked inside. It was empty.

Thirty-two years of collected tools, my late wife Dorothy’s sewing machines, and the woodworking bench my father built in 1961 were all gone. My hands were shaking when I walked into the house through the back door.

My son Kevin was sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal like it was any other Tuesday morning. He’s 36 years old and still eating Lucky Charms like a teenager.

“Hey Dad, didn’t expect you back until Thursday.” I set down my duffel bag.

“Where are my tools, Kevin?” He didn’t look up from his phone.

“Britney can explain. She’s upstairs.” I walked past him and climbed the stairs.

The door to what used to be my workshop was open now. I stood in the doorway and felt something break inside my chest.

The concrete floor had been covered with some kind of foam padding. The walls, which I’d spent two summers insulating and drywalling myself, were painted a soft yellow color.

There was a white crib in the corner, a changing table, and a rocking chair that I recognized as belonging to my mother-in-law, a woman who had died 15 years ago. My daughter-in-law Britney appeared behind me, her hand on her belly.

She was maybe six months along now. I’d known she was pregnant, but what I hadn’t known was that she’d decided to turn my workshop into a nursery while I was gone.

“Surprise,” she said, but her voice was careful.

“Testing.” I turned to look at her.

“Where is my wife’s sewing machine?” “We rented a storage unit. Everything’s safe, Walter,” she said.

“You have to understand, we need this space. The baby’s coming in 12 weeks, and the spare bedroom is too small for a proper nursery.” The spare bedroom is 12×14 ft, which is bigger than most nurseries.

“But it doesn’t have the attached bathroom. I need to be able to wash up when I’m changing diapers without walking all the way down the hall,” she added.

I looked at the room again. There was my father’s workbench and the pegboard where I’d hung every tool in its proper place for 30 years.

This was Dorothy’s corner, where she used to sit and sew while I worked on projects. The two of us would not talk much, but we were happy just to be near each other.

All of it was stripped away and replaced with yellow paint and baby furniture. “You didn’t ask me,” I said.

“We tried to call you; you never picked up.” “My brother just had heart surgery. I was at the hospital,” I replied.

“Well, we had to make a decision. The furniture was on sale and the painters had an opening. It just made sense to do it while you were gone so you wouldn’t have to deal with the disruption,” she explained.

I walked back downstairs. Kevin was still at the table, but he’d put down his phone.

He knew something was wrong. He’d always been able to read me ever since he was a little boy.

Dorothy used to say that Kevin had my stubbornness but her intuition. “Dad, I know you’re upset,” Kevin said.

“Do you?” “But Britney’s right. We need the space. You barely use that workshop anymore anyway. When’s the last time you built anything?” he asked.

“Three weeks ago. I was making a jewelry box for Ray’s wife,” I answered.

“Okay, but that’s not… look, you can still do that kind of stuff. We got you a really nice storage unit, climate controlled and everything. You can go there whenever you want,” he said.

I sat down across from him. This was my son, the boy I’d carried on my shoulders at parades.

He was the teenager I’d taught to drive in the parking lot of the Methodist church on Sunday afternoons. He was the man who’d cried in my arms at his mother’s funeral and promised he would always take care of me the way I’d taken care of him.

“Who rented the storage unit?” I asked.

“What?” “Whose name is on the rental agreement?” I pressed.

Kevin glanced toward the stairs. “Mine. Why?” he asked.

“So my belongings are in a storage unit that you control, not me,” I said.

“Dad, it’s not like that.” I stood up, pulled out my phone, and called my attorney.

Ben Whitfield had handled Dorothy’s estate, my retirement paperwork, and everything legal in my life for the past 20 years. He picked up on the second ring.

“Ben, it’s Walter. I need you to draw up an eviction notice. Yes, for this address. My son and his wife. Thirty days. No, I’m not joking. Can you have it ready by tomorrow morning? I’ll explain everything when I see you,” I said.

Kevin’s face went white. “Dad, you can’t be serious.”

“Watch me.” Britney came down the stairs.

“What’s going on? Kevin, why do you look like that?” she asked.

“He’s kicking us out.” I put my phone away.

“I’m evicting tenants who destroyed my property without permission, disposed of my wife’s belongings without consent, and installed modifications to my home without authorization from the owner. That’s me, by the way. The owner,” I said.

Britney’s hand went to her belly, that protective gesture pregnant women do. “Walter, I’m six months pregnant. You can’t throw us out on the street,” she said.

“You have 30 days to find an apartment. That’s plenty of time. You’re both employed; you can afford rent somewhere,” I replied.

“We can’t afford anything in this market. That’s why we moved in with you in the first place,” she argued.

I looked at my son. “Four years ago, you told me you needed six months to save up for a house down payment. Six months turned into a year. A year turned into two. Now it’s been four years, and somehow you’re less prepared to move out than when you moved in,” I said.

“Meanwhile, you’ve been paying me $300 a month in rent, which wouldn’t cover the electric bill in most places. Where exactly has the rest of your money been going?” I asked.

Kevin didn’t answer. “I’ll tell you where,” I continued.