Three dots appeared beneath Richard’s name.
Then my phone rang.
I watched it vibrate against Gloria Miller’s conference table while, thirty miles away, hydraulic lifts raised the first corner of the house Richard believed he owned.
Gloria did not reach for the phone.
Neither did I.
“Let him leave a message,” she said.
Richard called again.
Then again.
On the fourth attempt, he switched to video.
His face appeared on the screen for a moment before the call went unanswered.
Behind him, passengers moved through O’Hare with flower leis hanging from their necks.
Valerie stood beside him in a white traveling dress.
My children were somewhere outside the frame.
The voicemail arrived seconds later.
“Alex, what is this?” Richard demanded.
“What court notice? Why are you sending documents while I’m traveling? Call me before you do something stupid.”
Gloria lifted one eyebrow.
“He still thinks you need his permission,” she said.
She opened my father’s folder again.
The first document was the warranty deed.
Arthur Reed had purchased the parcel before Richard and I married, then transferred it directly to me.
Richard’s name had never appeared in the chain of title.
The next document was the original bill of sale for the modular structure.
It included the manufacturer, serial numbers and steel-frame specifications.
My father had paid the full price from his own account.
The installation permits listed Arthur as purchaser and me as beneficiary.
There was also an acknowledgment Richard had signed when we moved into the house.
I remembered the day only vaguely.
Chloe had been a baby.
Dylan had been running through the empty rooms while my father handed Richard a stack of papers at the kitchen counter.
Richard had signed without reading.
The acknowledgment stated that occupancy did not create an ownership interest in either the land or the modular structure.
“He signed this?” I asked.
“He did,” Gloria said.
“And it was notarized.”
Richard had spent nineteen years introducing the property as his house.
He had hosted clients there, posed beside the fireplace for holiday photographs and corrected contractors who addressed questions to me.
Yet his legal interest in the place amounted to less than the nameplate he had fastened to the mailbox.
My phone rang again.
This time Dylan’s name appeared.
I answered immediately.
“Mom?” His voice was low.
Airport announcements echoed behind him.
“Dad’s freaking out.
He says you’re trying to steal the house.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m not stealing anything, Dylan.”
“Then what’s happening?”
Before I could answer, Richard’s voice cut through the line.
“Give me the phone.”
There was a rustle, and then he was speaking directly into my ear.
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” he said.
“Whatever lawyer you found is taking advantage of you.
Stop the workers and go back inside.”
“You received the documents.”
“I received nonsense.”
