Chapter 3: The Signing
My attorney's name was Carol Briggs.
She had an office on the fourteenth floor of a building downtown, and she kept a box of tissues on the corner of her desk.
Not for herself.
She had told me on our first meeting that she put it there because most people who sat across from her eventually needed it.
I hadn't needed it yet.
"The bank confirmed this morning," Carol said, sliding a document across the desk.
"They've accepted the assumption application.
You have until Friday at five to execute."
I picked up the pen.
"And once I sign?"
"The mortgage transfers into your name.
You become the legal owner of record.
Your parents' names come off the title."
I looked at the signature line.
"They don't have to agree to this?"
Carol folded her hands.
"Ryan, at this stage of delinquency, the bank's priority is recovery.
They've already sent the final notice.
Your parents had the right to cure the default themselves.
They didn't.
What you're doing is stepping in as a qualified buyer before the foreclosure auction.
It's entirely legal."
"They'll say I stole it from them."
"They let it go to the edge of foreclosure," Carol said.
"You're the one preventing the bank from taking it.
There's a significant legal difference."
I set the pen down for a moment.
The house had been in the family for twenty-two years.
I had grown up in that house.
I knew which stair creaked, which window stuck in summer, where Dad had patched the drywall badly after a pipe burst when I was twelve.
I also knew that none of that had stopped them from telling me I didn't deserve to be part of the family.
I picked the pen back up and signed.
Carol notarized the page without ceremony.
She slid a copy across to me and kept one for her file.
"There's one more thing," she said.
She opened a second folder — thinner, but I recognized the format.
It was the repayment claim.
Every transfer I had documented.
Every payment.
Every emergency.
"I've drafted a formal demand letter," Carol said.
"We can send it simultaneously, or we can wait until after the assumption is recorded.
Your choice."
"Simultaneously," I said.
She nodded once.
"Then we're ready."
I left her office at half past eleven.
On the street below, the city moved at its usual pace.
I stood on the sidewalk for a moment and watched a woman walk past with two children, one on each hand.
She was saying something to the smaller one, something patient and quiet, and the child was nodding seriously like it mattered.
My phone buzzed.
Mom.
I let it ring.
She left a voicemail.
I didn't play it until I was in my car.
Her voice was still warm, still assuming.
"Ryan, sweetheart.
Just checking in.
We haven't heard from the bank yet, so I assume you're handling things on your end.
Your father and I really appreciate it.
We always knew you'd come through.
Call us when you can."
I set the phone on the passenger seat.
She assumed I was handling things.
She was right.
The assumption would be recorded by Thursday.
The demand letter would arrive Friday morning.
By Friday afternoon, they would understand exactly what I had meant when I said I'd take care of it.
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was a number I didn't recognize.
I almost let it go.
Then something made me answer.
"Is this Ryan?"
A man's voice.
Older.
Careful.
"Who's asking?"
"My name is Gerald.
I'm your father's brother.
Your uncle."
I went still.
Gerald.
The one who had sl@pped the table at my birthday dinner.
The one who had laughed the loudest.
May you like
"I know what you're planning," he said.
"And I think you should stop."
