PART 6
At lunch, I received a call from my brother Eric.
I answered this time.
“Rachel,” he said immediately, “what are you trying to prove?”
I leaned back in my chair.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Cutting them off.”
I almost laughed.
“Eric, Mom told me not to contact them again.”
“That’s not what she meant.”
I looked out the office window.
“Then what did she mean?”
Silence.
Because he knew.
They always knew.
They just expected me to understand their words differently when they hurt me.
Finally, Eric sighed.
“Look, Mason messed up. Fine. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that. But you’re taking it too far.”
“Too far?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Eric, if I walked into that house and insulted your son, would everyone laugh?”
“No.”
“If I ruined his dinner and told him he deserved it, would you call it a joke?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Another silence.
Then he said the sentence I would never forget.
“Because Mason is family.”
My throat tightened.
I looked at the phone.
Then I quietly said:
“So am I.”
Eric didn’t respond.
Because he knew he had no answer.
That evening, I came home to find a letter taped to my apartment door.
I immediately knew who it was from.
My parents’ handwriting.
My heart started beating faster.
Not because I was afraid.
Because some part of me still hoped.
Maybe they finally understood.
Maybe they wrote an apology.
Maybe they realized they had gone too far.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was not an apology.
It was a demand.
Rachel,
Your father and I need to talk to you immediately. The mortgage situation has become complicated. You need to come over tomorrow night.
No “please.”
No “we’re sorry.”
No “we miss you.”
Just another request.
Another expectation.
I folded the letter and placed it on my kitchen table.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice replied.
“Is this Rachel Whitman?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Karen Miller. I’m calling from Franklin County Records Office.”
My eyebrows tightened.
“Okay?”
“There’s something you should know about the property at your parents’ address.”
My stomach sank.
“What about it?”
There was a pause.
Then she said:
“According to our records, your name is listed as a co-owner of the home.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Yes. The deed was updated three years ago.”
I sat down slowly.
“That’s impossible.”
“No, ma’am. It was legally filed.”
My mind started racing.
Three years ago.
The exact time I started paying the mortgage.
“Who requested the change?” I asked.
Another pause.
Then:
“Your father.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
“My father?”
“Yes. The paperwork shows that he added you to the deed.”
I couldn’t speak.
All those years, I thought I was just helping them.
I thought I was paying someone else’s debt.
But apparently…
Something else had been happening.
“Can you tell me why?” I whispered.
The woman hesitated.
“Ma’am, there is one more thing.”
“What?”
“The home has a second mortgage.”
My heart stopped.
“What second mortgage?”
“The loan was taken out approximately eighteen months ago.”
I gripped the phone.
“Who signed for it?”
The answer came slowly.
“Your father.”
“And whose name is on that loan?”
The woman went quiet.
Then she said:
“Yours.”
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