Veronica cleared her throat. A diplomatic cough.
“I should mention, Mr. Morrison, that if your daughter is currently residing here, we’ll need her cooperation for showings. It’s much easier when everyone’s on the same page.”
“She’ll cooperate,” Dad said, not even looking at me. “Won’t you, Jade?”
I stared at him. This man who taught me to ride a bike, who’d scared away my high school boyfriend, who’d cried at my college graduation.
Somewhere along the way, I had become expendable to him. Lillian’s needs had alwayscliped mine. But this—this felt like a new level of betrayal.
“I need to think about this,” I managed.
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“There’s nothing to think about. The decision’s made. Start packing up your personal items. We want the house to show well. Veronica recommends staging it professionally.”
He turned and walked back toward his car, Veronica trailing, talking about comparable properties and market analysis.
Kenneth lingered, examining my patio furniture like he was already planning the layout of his future space.
“You’ll get used to the idea,” he said conversationally. “Honestly, this place is too much house for one person anyway. You should thank your dad for helping you simplify your life.”
That night, I sat in my living room as darkness fell, unable to turn on the lights or move from the couch.
The house settled around me with its familiar sounds: the refrigerator’s hum, the creek of the foundation, the way the wind whistled through the bathroom vent.
I had painted every wall myself. Refinished the hardwood floors. Replaced the ancient toilet and the kitchen faucet that had leaked constantly.
This wasn’t just a house. It was a part of me.
My phone buzzed. A text from Mom.
“Your father told me about the new arrangement. I think it’s wonderful that you’re willing to help Lillian this way. Family should always come first.”
Willing? As though I’d had any choice in the matter.
Another text arrived. This one from Lillian.
“OMG. Dad told me the news. Thank you so much, Jade. The twins are going to love that backyard. We’re thinking of putting in a play set where your garden is. Can’t wait to start planning the move.”
She’d included three heart emojis and a gift of someone dancing.
She genuinely believed I’d volunteered for this, that I’d happily surrendered 3 years of mortgage payments and countless hours of renovation work so her children could have a swing set.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the deed paperwork shoved in a digital folder I tried to forget about.
There it was in black and white, both names on the title: mine and Gerald Morrison’s.
He’d insisted at the time, said it was standard practice when a parent helped with the down payment. I’d been so grateful for his help, so excited to finally have a home of my own, that I hadn’t questioned it.
Stupid. So incredibly stupid.
But something else caught my eye as I scrolled through the documents.
The loan agreement we’d written up, informal but signed by both of us, clearly stated that his contribution was a loan to be repaid at 2% interest over 5 years.
There was no mention of property rights, no clause about him having decision-making power over the house, just a straightforward repayment plan.
I pulled up my spreadsheet tracking the payments with interest. The total owed was roughly $42,000. I had paid back nearly $31,000 over 3 years, leaving about $11,000 remaining.
I grabbed my phone and called the one person I knew who might understand the legal angles.
Dexter Hang had been my study partner in undergrad before he went to law school. We’d stayed friends, meeting for coffee every few months.
“Jade, everything okay? It’s almost 10:00.”
The concern in his voice nearly broke me.
“I need legal advice,” I said, my voice cracking. “My father is trying to sell my house out from under me.”
A silent stretch.