Chapter 2 - The Deed on the Table
My father stood frozen above me, his heavy hand still hovering in the air, his knuckles reddened from the force of the strike. He expected me to cringe. He expected me to cower against the cabinets, sobbing and reaching for my purse to write whatever check they wanted. That was the routine. That was how the last five years had gone.
Instead, I used the edge of the kitchen counter to pull myself up.
My lips were numb, the copper taste of blood heavy on my tongue, but my hands were entirely steady. Behind me, Ruby was sobbing softly, her tiny fingers digging into the fabric of my jeans. I reached back with one hand, wrapping my fingers around hers, anchoring her behind my body.
“You think I’m playing, Evelyn?” my father growled, stepping closer, trying to use his height to intimidate me. “You’re living under my roof! As long as you stay here, you pay what your mother asks! You don't get to act like a guest!”
“Your roof?” I asked softly.
My mother, Eleanor, scoffed from near the refrigerator. “Don’t start with the technicalities! We let you move back in here after your pathetic divorce because we felt sorry for you. And this is how you repay us? By letting your sister starve while you hoard your little alimony checks?”
Paige didn't even stop chewing. She tapped her acrylic nails against her phone screen, scrolling through an online shopping app. “Honestly, Evie, it’s embarrassing. Just give Mom the two grand so I can pay my landlord. I shouldn't have to deal with debt collectors while I'm trying to launch my brand.”
I unzipped the side pocket of Ruby’s diaper bag—the same bag I’d carried to the ER four hours ago. I didn't pull out a checkbook. I pulled out a thick, blue-bordered Manila folder stamped with the seal of the County Recorder’s Office.
I tossed it onto the dining table, right over Paige’s takeout container.
A grease stain immediately bloomed across the front page, but the bold black text at the top remained perfectly legible.
NOTICE OF TITLE ASSIGNMENT AND DEED TRANSFER.
My father frowned, glancing down at the paper. “What the hell is this?”
“Three years ago,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet kitchen like shattered glass, “you lost your job at the plant, Dad. You spent six months drinking in the garage while the mortgage went into default. The bank sent a notice of foreclosure. Do you remember that?”
My mother’s face stiffened. “That was a temporary hardship—”
“It was six months away from an auction on the county courthouse steps!” I snapped, stepping forward. “You begged me to help. You told me if I used my divorce settlement to clear the back mortgage, you’d put my name on the deed as a co-owner. But you didn't do that, did you?”
My father’s jaw tightened. “It’s my house. I bought it in 1994.”
“You had a house,” I corrected him. “Until six months ago, when you took out an illegal second mortgage to buy Paige her convertible, defaulted again, and the bank put the property back into short sale.”
Paige stopped scrolling. She looked up, her glossy lips parted in confusion. “Wait, what?”
“I didn't just clear the deficit this time,” I said, looking my mother straight in the eyes. “I bought the note directly from the lender. I paid off the entire remaining balance with the survivor benefit trust Samuel left for Ruby before he passed. The county approved the final transfer forty-eight hours ago.”
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I leaned across the table, staring at my father’s pale face.
“This house doesn't belong to you, Dad. It hasn't belonged to you since Tuesday. I own every brick, every shingle, and every square foot of the dirt you’re standing on.”
