Chapter 2 - KARLA’S MORTGAGE PAYMENT BOUNCED
Karla called me Wednesday morning.
Not to apologize.
Not to ask where Sophia was sleeping.
She called about money.
“What did you do?”
I was editing a pharmaceutical-training manual at Mrs. Gable’s tiny breakfast table while Sophia watched cartoons.
“Good morning to you too.”
“My mortgage payment didn’t go through.”
I looked at the clock.
8:14.
Fast.
Apparently Karla monitored money more carefully when it stopped arriving.
“I canceled my transfer.”
Silence.
Then:
“You can’t do that.”
I actually looked at my phone to make sure I heard correctly.
“It’s my account.”
“You promised to help.”
“Temporarily.”
“You’ve been doing it for years.”
“That doesn’t make it permanent.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Mom said you were being vindictive.”
“Mom threw Sophia’s dinner away.”
“That has nothing to do with my mortgage.”
Exactly.
“Karla, why am I responsible for your mortgage?”
“Because you make more.”
I almost laughed.
There it was.
Not because I signed an agreement.
Not because I owed her money.
Because I could.
I said:
“You’re twenty-nine.”
“So?”
“You work.”
“So do you.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why I’m paying my own housing now.”
She became quiet.
Then:
“Where are you?”
“Safe.”
“Are you coming home?”
“No.”
Another silence.
Then Karla said something that told me she knew more than I realized.
“You can’t just throw Mom and Dad out either.”
My fingers stopped moving above the keyboard.
“I didn’t say anything about that.”
She stammered.
“I mean… obviously. Mom told me about the deed thing.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
Interesting.
“How much do you know?”
“Laura, don’t start.”
“Did you know they used the apartment to help buy your condo?”
Silence.
My stomach dropped.
“Karla.”
“I thought Dad had fixed the ownership.”
“Fixed?”
“He said you signed it back.”
“I didn’t.”
Nothing.
Then:
“That’s between you and Dad.”
“No.”
“You received ninety-six thousand dollars connected to it.”
“It was a gift.”
“From money borrowed against my property.”
She exploded.
“Stop calling it your property!”
Sophia looked over from the television.
I lowered my voice.
“It is my property.”
“You only got it because Mom and Dad were struggling.”
“I paid the mortgage arrears.”
“That doesn’t make you better than us.”
“I never said it did.”
“You always act like some saint.”
I almost responded.
Then stopped.
The old me would have defended every payment.
Every grocery receipt.
Every electric bill.
Every month of Karla’s mortgage.
I was tired of auditing my goodness for people committed to calling me selfish.
“Karla, I’m not discussing this without lawyers anymore.”
Her voice dropped.
“You’re seriously getting attorneys involved against Mom and Dad?”
“They already involved a bank.”
I ended the call.
Ten minutes later, Rachel called.
The title examiner had preliminary findings.
The deed transferring the property back to my parents had been electronically recorded fourteen months earlier.
The notarization belonged to Harold Pierce, a mobile notary who had performed work for Dad’s former contracting company.
The document claimed I signed it at my parents’ apartment on a Thursday afternoon.
I checked my calendar.
I had been in Raleigh that entire day.
Editing conference.
Hotel receipts.
Flight record.
Client emails.
Maybe somebody could claim I traveled back secretly.
But another piece existed.
At the exact time the notarization supposedly occurred, I had been speaking on a recorded virtual panel in front of more than two hundred attendees.
Rachel almost smiled.
“That’s helpful.”
“What happens now?”
“We challenge the deed.”
“We notify the title insurer and lender.”
“Depending on the evidence, authorities may become involved.”
“And my parents?”
“They’ll get lawyers.”
“They should.”
Then:
“Laura, there’s another issue.”
Of course.
Dad and Mom’s occupancy agreement prohibited them from placing liens or claiming ownership inconsistent with my title.
If the disputed deed and mortgage were what they appeared to be, the agreement had been materially breached.
Meaning I could potentially terminate their right to occupy.
Through proper notice and legal process.
Not by changing locks while they went grocery shopping.
I stared out Mrs. Gable’s window.
Mom had told me:
When you can’t afford rent, you’ll come crawling back.
She had said it inside a home she occupied because I had spent my inheritance to keep it from foreclosure.
I should have felt triumphant.
I didn’t.
I felt tired.
Then Mrs. Gable placed a bowl of soup in front of Sophia.
Chicken noodle.
Sophia smiled.
“My soup!”
I nearly cried.
Mrs. Gable looked confused.
“Too salty?”
“No.”
May you like
I smiled.
“It’s perfect.”
