Chapter 7: The Morning Everything Came Apart
Gerald's documents arrived by courier three days later — a scanned copy emailed to Patricia and a physical copy sent directly to me at Mrs.
Gable's address.
The original loan letter was there.
Arthur's signature, Gerald's signature, the date.
And at the bottom, in Gerald's handwriting: *Repaid in full — confirmed.
G.H.* With a date eleven years ago.
Patricia filed our response to the counterclaim the same afternoon.
She attached Gerald's statement, the original letter, the repayment confirmation, and a formal request that the court examine any documents produced by the claimants for signs of alteration or fabrication.
"Now we wait," Patricia told me.
"Their solicitor will see this within forty-eight hours.
At that point, they have a choice: withdraw the third part of the claim and hope we don't push further, or proceed and risk a fraud investigation."
"What would you do?" I asked.
"I would withdraw," she said.
"But your mother and sister are not behaving like people who are thinking clearly."
She was right.
They did not withdraw.
Instead, Karla called me directly.
It was a Thursday evening.
Sophia was in the bath and I was sitting on the floor outside the bathroom door, listening to her narrate an elaborate story involving a rubber duck and a sea voyage.
"You went to Gerald," Karla said.
There was no greeting.
"I did."
"He's a bitter old man who has hated Mom for twenty years.
Whatever he told you — "
"He sent documents, Karla.
Dated documents with original signatures."
"Documents can be — " She stopped.
"Can be what?"
Silence.
"You need to drop this," she said.
Her voice had shifted.
The aggression had thinned out and something rawer was underneath it.
"Laura, I have $40,000 left on that mortgage.
If my lender calls it in because of missed payments, I lose the condo.
I lose everything I've built."
"Everything you've built," I said quietly.
"Karla, I paid $40,800 of your mortgage over four years.
What exactly did you build?"
"That's not — you offered — "
"I transferred the money because you asked me to and told me it was temporary.
You told your boyfriend you were paying it yourself.
You told your friends you were paying it yourself.
You let me pay for your independence while you called me a parasite in front of my daughter."
The bath sounds continued through the door.
The rubber duck, apparently, had survived the sea voyage.
"I'm sorry," Karla said.
The words came out small and strange, like she wasn't sure how they'd gotten there.
"About the soup.
About what I said.
I didn't — I wasn't thinking about Sophia."
"I know."
"Then why won't you just — "
"Because sorry doesn't make the $40,800 appear back in my account," I said.
"And because the counterclaim your solicitor filed accused me of fraud.
You and Mom signed that.
You chose to do that."
She didn't answer.
"Withdraw the counterclaim," I said.
"All three parts.
Have your solicitor file the withdrawal by Monday.
If you do that, I will reinstate the mortgage transfer for six months — six months, not permanently — while you make arrangements to refinance in your own name.
That's the offer."
"And if I don't?"
"Then Patricia continues, Gerald's documents go into the formal record, and your solicitor has to explain to the court why you submitted a claim based on a loan you knew had been repaid."
The line was quiet for a long time.
"I have to talk to Mom," Karla said finally.
"Talk fast," I said.
"Monday."
I heard Sophia calling from the bath.
I stood up, opened the door, and found her holding the rubber duck triumphantly above the waterline.
"He made it," she announced.
"He did," I said.
"Good duck."
By Sunday evening, Patricia had received the withdrawal notice.
All three parts.
Signed by Karla's solicitor.
Filed with the court.
May you like
Patricia forwarded it to me with a single line: *First round complete.
Your mother hasn't signed the tenancy agreement yet.*
