By the time the bacon smoke had faded, I had four pages of notes and an email from a lawyer who still knew my name. While Tiffany filmed “healing routines” in my dining room, I photographed the holes she’d drilled into my walls and the scratches where my dead husband’s chair had been dragged away like it was clutter. That afternoon, I canceled the premium Wi‑Fi they needed for their brand and downgraded to the senior plan I could afford. When Tiffany’s livestream froze the next morning, she thought it was a glitch; when the process server rang the doorbell at 8:03 a.m., she finally understood it was conseq… Continues…
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