Chapter 8 - The Valuation of Truth
Two weeks later, Arthur Pendelton and I sat down with my parents in Arthur’s conference room.
My mother wore a dark, somber dress, looking as though she were attending a funeral. My father sat beside her, his hands clasped tightly over his cane, his eyes fixed on the mahogany table. They had arrived without Melissa, who had reportedly moved into a rented townhouse in Baltimore using a security deposit she had managed to scrape together from her remaining assets.
"Alright," Arthur began, opening a legal binder. "Let’s get down to the terms. Jack is prepared to offer a private seller-financed mortgage to you, Mr. and Mrs. Collins, for the fair market value of the property, minus the exact principal amount of the payments Jack has made over the last five years."
My father looked up, his brow furrowing. "What does that mean in plain English?"
"It means, Dad," I said, leaning forward, "that I am not throwing you out on the street. I’m giving you the chance to actually own this house. But you are going to pay for it. Every single month, you will send a mortgage payment to my LLC. If you miss a single payment, the property defaults back to me, and the eviction proceeds immediately."
"We can't afford that on my pension," my father muttered, his voice cracking.
"You can afford it if you stop funding Melissa’s lifestyle," I said. "You can afford it if you sell her SUV, which is registered in your name, and use the cash to pay down the principal. You can afford it if you live like normal retired people instead of trying to maintain a facade of wealth you never earned."
My mother looked at me, her eyes red-rimmed and watery, but there was no sweetness left in them. "You’ve won, Jack. Are you happy now? You’ve humiliated your family, you’ve forced your sister out of her home, and you’ve turned your father into a tenant in his own house. I hope you're satisfied."
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"This isn't about winning, Mom," I said, looking her dead in the eye. "It’s about balance. For thirty years, I paid the price for your approval, and it was never enough. Last Sunday, when you left my kids on the porch, you showed me that no matter how much I paid, my family would never have a place at your table. So, I built my own table. And from now on, you only get to sit at it if you pay for your own seat."
My father stared at the contract for a long time. Then, with a slow, trembling hand, he picked up the pen and signed his name on the line.
