I updated the lease agreement.
New monthly rent, $8,400, triple the current amount, but still within legal limits for their area.
The lease allowed for increases with 30 days notice, a clause I’d made sure to include when I’d had my lawyer draft it.
I printed the official notice and slipped it into an envelope marked Hastings Property Management, my company, though I’d kept my maiden name for business purposes.
Even David didn’t know his mother had gone back to using Richardson professionally.
At 9:00 a.m. sharp, I drove to their apartment building. I’d bought the entire complex 6 years ago when the previous owner was facing foreclosure.
24 units, all generating steady income. The building that David bragged about living in, calling it a steal to his friends.
If only he knew.
I slipped the envelope under their door, just as I did with all my tenants.
Professional, impersonal, legal.
Then I went home and waited.
The call came at 11:47 a.m.
Mom.
David’s voice was strained.
Something weird happened. We got this notice saying our rent is being tripled. It has to be a mistake.
I was sitting in my favorite chair, the threadbear recliner that Oilia had once suggested I upgrade. I kept my voice steady, concerned.
Oh my goodness, that’s terrible. What does the notice say exactly?
It’s from something called Hastings Property Management. They’re saying the rent is going from 2,800 to 8,400 a month. That’s insane. We can’t afford that.
Have you tried calling them? Maybe it’s an error in their system.
I called three times. The woman who answered said, “All rent increases are final and legally binding.” She was so cold about it, Mom. Like she didn’t care that we might have to move.
I made appropriate sympathetic noises while filing my nails.
That’s awful, sweetheart. What did Oilia say?
There was a pause.
She’s upset. Really upset. She’s been crying since we got the notice.
Crying.
The same woman who’d laughed about calling me tacky was now crying because she couldn’t afford to keep living above her means.
“I’m so sorry this is happening,” I said, and part of me meant it.
I was sorry it had come to this. Sorry that 15 years of kindness and generosity had been met with such contempt.
Mom, I hate to ask, but could you help us out just until I figure out what to do? Maybe a loan to cover the difference for a few months.
There it was.
The same request I’d been hearing for years. Dressed up in different emergencies. The car that broke down. The medical bill that insurance didn’t cover. The vacation that Oilia desperately needed for her mental health.
David. Honey, you know I’d help if I could, but my budget is pretty tight these days.
It wasn’t a lie exactly. I did have a budget. It just happened to include 37 properties and a sevenf figureure net worth.
I understand, Mom. I just I don’t know what we’re going to do.
That afternoon, Oilia called me directly. Her voice was different, smaller, more fragile than I’d ever heard it.
Mabel, I hope you don’t mind me calling. David said, “You might not be able to help with our rent situation, but I thought maybe could you at least co-sign a loan for us? We’re good for it, obviously, but the banks are being so difficult.”
I almost smiled.
Two days ago, I was a tacky old lady.
Today, I was her potential financial savior.
Oh, Oilia, I wish I could help, but my credit isn’t what it used to be.
Another lie.
My credit score was 812.
I see.
Her voice was tight now, the sweetness cracking around the edges.
Well, if you think of anything.