Chapter 9: The Deposition
Patricia had warned me it would feel strange.
She was right.
The conference room at Hartwell's former firm was beige and windowless.
There was a long table, a court reporter, and two attorneys — Patricia beside me, and the attorney Vivian had managed to retain after Hartwell withdrew, a younger man named Greer who kept straightening his notepad.
Vivian sat across from me.
She was wearing a dark blue cardigan.
Her hair was neat.
She looked smaller than she had on my porch.
Mallory was not present.
Greer had advised against it.
Mitchell was not present either.
He had submitted a written statement through his own separate attorney — a brief, factual document confirming that he had not authorized the original filing and was not pursuing any claim against the property.
Greer opened his notepad.
"Mrs.
Miller, I want to begin by asking about the nature of your son's contributions to the property at—"
"Before we begin," Patricia said, "I'd like to enter into the record the text message exchange between Mitchell Miller and Mallory Miller dated six months prior to the incident in question, which has already been submitted to the court."
Greer glanced at it.
His expression didn't change, but he set his pen down briefly before picking it up again.
"Mrs.
Miller," Patricia continued, looking at Vivian, "in this exchange, your daughter Mallory writes, and I quote: 'Just keep things normal until Mom is ready to move.' Were you aware of this message?"
Vivian looked at Greer.
He gave a small nod.
"I may have discussed the general situation with my children, yes."
"Did you direct Mallory to send that message to Mitchell?"
"I don't recall the specifics."
"Did you instruct Mitchell to behave normally in his marriage while you prepared a legal strategy against his wife?"
"I was trying to protect my son."
"Did you instruct him to behave normally while you prepared a legal strategy against his wife?"
A pause.
"I suggested that it wasn't the right time to create additional conflict."
Patricia made a note.
"In the letter you hand-delivered to my client's home, you wrote that, and I quote, 'A good wife would not need a deed to feel secure.' Did you write that letter?"
"Yes."
"Did you intend it to cause distress?"
"I intended to express my feelings."
"Did you contact my client's workplace on the following Friday?"
Vivian's jaw tightened.
"I called to speak with her, yes."
"After receiving a cease-and-desist letter from this office."
"I had things to say."
"After receiving a cease-and-desist letter from this office."
A long pause.
"Yes."
Patricia set down her pen.
"Mrs.
Miller, your original motion was filed without your son's consent, using evidence gathered through a coordinated campaign involving private communications, workplace contacts, and at least one hand-delivered letter that meets the legal threshold for harassment.
Your son has since withdrawn any implicit cooperation and submitted a statement to the court.
Patricia Hartwell withdrew from the case.
You are now represented by Mr.
Greer, who I suspect has advised you that the remaining legal ground is very narrow."
Greer straightened his notepad again.
Vivian looked at me for the first time since we had sat down.
"I want you to know," she said, "that I never disliked you."
I held her gaze.
"I know."
"I just didn't think you were right for him."
"I know that too."
"He was happy before—" She stopped.
Pressed her lips together.
"Before what?" I asked.
She shook her head slightly.
"Before things became complicated."
Patricia glanced at me.
I gave a small nod.
"Mrs.
Miller," I said, "I'm not your enemy.
I never was.
But I'm not going to lose my house because you decided I wasn't good enough for your son."
Vivian looked at the table.
Something in her face shifted — not softened exactly, but settled.
Like a decision being made.
"Greer," she said quietly.
"What do we do from here?"
Greer cleared his throat.
"Given the current evidentiary record, my recommendation would be to discuss a formal withdrawal of the motion and a mutual agreement to cease further legal action."
Vivian was quiet for a long moment.
Then she looked at me one more time.
"The house is yours," she said.
"It always was."
It wasn't an apology.
But it was the closest thing to one I was going to get.
Patricia made a note.
The court reporter kept typing.
May you like
Outside the beige conference room, the world continued as normal.
But inside, something that had been in motion for two years finally came to a stop.
