“We would like to offer you a settlement, Ms. Vance,” the attorney’s voice was tense and high-pitched on the speakerphone.

Mr. Sterling sat next to him in the plush Cincinnati law office, his face pale and his knuckles white.

My daughter Maya smiled, leaning back in her chair and tapping her pen on the table. “A settlement won’t cover the illegal eviction notices you’ve already sent my mother,” she said.

Let me back up. Let me tell you how this all started.

I was a school cafeteria worker at a local public middle school in Cincinnati, Ohio. For 11 years, I had raised Maya alone in a modest third-floor apartment on Vine Street, in the heart of the Over-the-Rhine neighborhood.

I loved that apartment. It was not fancy, but it had character. The large bay windows in the living room let in the morning sun, lighting up the worn hardwood floors. The ancient iron radiator in the corner clanked and hissed loudly in the winter, like a friendly old dog. From my kitchen window, I could watch the families playing in Washington Park. It was my home. It was the only home Maya really remembered.

The original landlord was Mr. Abernathy. He was a sweet, elderly widower who lived in the first-floor apartment. He wore thick cardigans and always smelled of peppermint and pipe tobacco. He treated the building not as a business, but as a small community.

“You’re a good woman, Evelyn,” Mr. Abernathy had told me when I first signed the lease 11 years ago. “You take care of this place like it’s your own, and I’ll make sure you always have a roof over your head.”

I took that promise to heart. I kept the place clean. I painted the kitchen walls a soft yellow myself. I bought seasonal flowers to plant in the small lobby window boxes. When the bathroom radiator began to leak in 2017, I paid a local plumber $150 to fix it myself. I never sent the bill to Mr. Abernathy because I knew his pension was small and he was struggling with medical bills.

I never paid rent late. Not once. Every first of the month, I walked downstairs and handed him my envelope.

“Here is the rent, Mr. Abernathy,” I would say, handing him the envelope.