Chapter 9: What the Documents Said
My father called me that evening at half past six.
He didn't say hello.
He just said, "Can you come over?"
I was there in twenty minutes.
Pete's car was already in the drive.
My mother's light was on upstairs.
My father opened the door before I reached it.
He looked smaller than I remembered, which was not something I had ever thought about my father before.
He stepped back to let me in and led me to the kitchen without speaking.
Pete was at the table.
The documents were spread across it.
Four pages, plus two attachments.
My father sat down heavily.
He put both hands flat on the table, not touching the papers.
"I want you to read it," he said.
"Then I want you to tell me if I'm reading it wrong."
I sat down.
I read it.
It took me four minutes.
I read the main document twice.
Then I set it down and looked at my father.
"You're not reading it wrong," I said.
He closed his eyes.
The document was structured simply enough.
The primary estate — the house, the savings, the investments — was to be divided.
But the division was not equal.
A clause, added in the most recent revision, directed that the primary asset, the house, be transferred in full to James upon the second parent's passing, with a separate, smaller cash sum allocated to me.
The cash sum was listed.
It was not nothing.
But against the value of the house, it was a fraction.
The revision date was eight weeks ago.
"He told us it was standard," my father said.
"He said because he was closer, because he'd been doing more of the running around, it made sense for him to take the house.
He said you'd agreed."
"I never agreed to anything.
I was never asked."
My father pressed his hands harder against the table.
"He said you'd had a conversation.
That you'd told him you didn't want the house.
That you and your husband had your own place and didn't need it."
"That conversation never happened."
Pete said nothing.
He'd been watching my father's face since I walked in.
"Dad," I said carefully.
"The solicitor.
Daniel Pell.
Did you choose him yourself?"
"James found him.
He said he'd done his research."
"James worked with Daniel Pell for four years.
At the same company."
My father looked up at me.
His eyes were steady, but something behind them was working very hard.
"He knew him," my father said.
It was not a question.
"Yes."
"And he didn't tell us."
"No."
My father picked up the document.
He held it for a moment.
Then he set it back down.
"I signed this," he said.
"Your mother signed this.
We sat in that office and we signed it because James told us it was what we'd all agreed."
"I know."
"I should have called you." His voice was very quiet.
"I should have called you before we went anywhere near a solicitor.
I knew that.
I knew it at the time and I let him talk me out of it."
"He's very good at that," I said.
"He's my son," my father said.
"I wanted to believe him."
The room was quiet for a moment.
Pete reached across the table and put his hand over my father's.
He didn't say anything.
He just left it there.
"What do we do?" my father said.
"You contact an independent solicitor," I said.
"One that neither James nor I have any connection to.
You show them this document.
You tell them what you were told when you signed it.
And you ask them what your options are."
"Can it be undone?"
"I don't know.
That's what we need to find out."
My father nodded slowly.
Then he looked at me directly for the first time since I'd walked in.
"The things James told me about you," he said.
"About your husband.
About what you'd been saying."
"None of it was true."
He nodded again.
A small, tired nod.
"I know that now," he said.
"I think I knew it before.
I just — " He stopped.
"I wanted to believe my son was looking after us."
"He was looking after himself," Pete said quietly.
It was the first thing he'd said since I arrived.
My father didn't argue.
Upstairs, my mother's light went off.
The house settled around us.
"I'll make some tea," Pete said, and stood up.
My father looked at the documents on the table.
He didn't touch them again.
"I'm sorry," he said to me.
Not loudly.
Just plainly, the way he said everything that mattered.
"I know, Dad."
"I should have called you."
"We're here now," I said.
May you like
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he nodded once, and that was enough.
