“What are my options?”
“Option one, you agree to refinance. Pay him the remaining balance immediately and get his name off the title. That ends his leverage, but requires you to come up with $11,000 fast. Refinancing costs—figure another $2,000 for that.”
I did quick mental math. I had about $7,000 in savings, plus another $3,000 in a retirement account I could borrow against. The refinancing would require more than what I had liquid.
“Option two, you refuse to cooperate with any sale and file a petition action, forcing the court to decide. That could take months or years and cost more in legal fees than the house is worth.”
“Option three?” Dexter hesitated.
“This is where it gets interesting. I did some research into your dad last night. Hope you don’t mind. He’s listed as co-owner on your sister’s condo, too, right?”
I had known that, but it made sense. Dad had probably helped Lillian and Kenneth with their down payment the same way he’d helped me.
“I guess so.”
“Here’s the thing. If he’s planning to sell your house to fund their move to a bigger place, but he’s also on their condo title, that means they can’t sell the condo without his approval either. It creates a weird circular situation where he controls both properties.”
My brain started working through the implications.
“So, if I refuse to sign off on selling my house, then Lillian can’t move because she can’t sell her current place without your dad’s agreement. And your dad probably won’t let her sell until your house situation is resolved. It’s mutually assured destruction. Basically, nobody moves.”
A plan began forming. Dark and satisfying.
“What if I did something else? What if I made my house completely undesirable to them?”
“Legally undesirable or actually undesirable?” Dexter laughed nervously.
“Actually. If the house became somewhere they definitely wouldn’t want to live, Dad would have to back off, right?”
“I’m not going to ask for details,” Dexter said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But for the record, any property damage you cause would also damage your own equity.”
“I’m not talking about damage,” I corrected him. “I’m talking about making it unsuitable for children.”
We talked through logistics for another hour. Dexter agreed to draft a formal letter to my father laying out the legal reality that no sale could proceed without my signature while I figured out my next moves.
The first step was securing enough money to pay off the loan and refinance immediately.
I called my boss and asked about the possibility of advancing my annual bonus, explaining a family emergency. She’d always liked me, valued my work, and agreed to process it immediately rather than waiting until the end of the quarter.
That gave me $9,000.
The remaining $4,000 for the loan payoff and refinancing costs would come from a personal loan from Dexter himself, interest-free. A true gift between friends.
While I waited for the money to process, I got to work on phase two of my plan.
The first thing I did was adopt three dogs from the county shelter: two large German shepherds and a husky mix, all wonderful animals who’d been waiting for homes.
I filled out the paperwork honestly, explaining that I had a house with a fenced yard and worked from home two days a week. The shelter was thrilled to place them.
Bruno, Athena, and Dakota moved in that afternoon.
The house immediately transformed from quiet and orderly to chaotic and loud. The dogs were excited about their new space, racing through rooms and barking at every small noise.
I didn’t discourage the barking. In fact, I encouraged it by rewarding them with treats whenever they vocalized.
Next, I contacted every musician friend I’d accumulated over the years.
My college roommate’s brother played drums in a metal band that practiced in various garages around the city. Would they like a regular practice space with good acoustics? My garage apartment, perhaps? Free of charge.
They jumped at the offer.
Starting that Thursday, Carnage Theory began practicing in my garage every Tuesday and Thursday evening from 7 to 10 p.m. The sound reverberated through the entire property, a wall of noise that made the windows rattle.
I joined a local chicken-keeping group and purchased six laying hens, which I installed in a coupe I built in three days flat.
The rooster I added, a beautiful buff Orpington named Rodri, had a crow that could wake the dead. He started his morning serenades at 4:30 a.m. without fail.
Dad called on Saturday morning.
“What the hell is going on at your house? Kenneth drove by yesterday and said there are chickens in the yard.”