Chapter 2 - FIFTY-THREE CALLS
The attachment was a furniture inventory.
My desk.
My bed.
The washer and dryer I had bought.
The dining table I had refinished on two consecutive weekends.
Beside each item, Mom had written where it should go.
NAOMI’S DESK — DEREK’S OFFICE.
QUEEN BED — DEREK.
LAUNDRY MACHINES — STAY.
At the bottom was a sentence that made my hands go cold.
She won’t make a scene if we handle it before she gets home.
I saved the email thread.
Then I called a motel.
For the first time in three years, I slept in a room where nobody needed anything from me.
At seven the next morning, my phone showed fifty-three missed calls.
Mom had left eleven messages.
The first was angry.
“Where are you?
You left the kitchen a mess.”
The fourth was colder.
“If you’re trying to punish us, it won’t work.”
By the ninth, she sounded worried.
“Your father says you have the folder from the desk.
Call me.”
I sat up.
The folder was in my laptop bag.
I had taken it from the kitchen earlier that evening because I needed a tax receipt for my own records.
It contained invoices, bank statements, and an agreement my parents had signed when I paid their overdue property taxes.
At the time, Dad had insisted on putting the promise in writing.
“You shouldn’t lose your savings helping us,” he’d said.
Now Mom wanted that folder back.
I called my manager and used two personal days.
Then I called Sophie.
We had met in college, when she borrowed my notes and corrected the professor’s explanation of a contract dispute.
Now she handled property cases.
She read the agreement twice.
“They promised to repay this amount when the house was sold or refinanced,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And this says they would reimburse certain approved repairs.”
“Dad wrote that part.”
Sophie tapped the page.
“Paying household bills doesn’t automatically make you an owner.
But this document matters.”
“I don’t want their house.”
“What do you want?”
I answered before guilt could get there first.
“My life back.”
She nodded.
“Then we start with facts.
No threats.
No midnight arguments.
And no signing anything they hand you.”
My phone vibrated.
Derek.
Stop being dramatic.
Mom says you stole family paperwork.
I turned the screen toward Sophie.
May you like
Before she could respond, another message arrived.
The lender needs it by Friday.
