Every time I shifted in the chair, it squeaked like it was complaining.
I remember my mom smoothing my sleeve like I was a kid on the first day of school.
“We’re so proud,” she said.
But her eyes weren’t on me.
They were on the folder.
Dad kept checking his watch.
“How long is this going to take?” he muttered, already irritated, like my biggest milestone was an inconvenience to his afternoon.
I had $150,000 ready for the down payment.
I’d saved.
I’d planned.
I’d turned down trips and upgrades and anything that would mess with my debt to income.
I’d protected my credit score like it was a living thing.
I didn’t drain my retirement accounts.
I didn’t borrow from anyone.
I did it the way adults do when they know no one’s coming to catch them.
When the loan officer slid the papers across, I read every line.
Not because I’m paranoid, because I’ve seen what happens when people treat your life like a group project.
My name was the one on the mortgage.
My name was the one on the deed.
No co-signer listed, no co-owner, just me.
Dad got bored halfway through and went to wait in the car.
Mom followed, saying she had dinner reservations and couldn’t sit through all this paperwork.
They didn’t sign anything.
They didn’t have to.
Later, though, that story changed.
It became, “We helped with the paperwork.”
It became, “We were there.”
It became, “Family homes belong to the family.”
It was clever in a lazy way.