Chapter 2 - Page One
At 7:12 Christmas morning, I emailed my attorney.
Her name was Sarah Keene.
She had handled the original property transfer seven years earlier.
I expected voicemail.
She answered.
“Rebecca?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I have teenagers. I’ve been awake since five.”
“I need to terminate my parents’ occupancy.”
That woke her more effectively than coffee.
“What happened?”
I gave her the short version.
Portrait.
Ella.
Northstar.
Comments about signatures.
Nicole’s housing problems.
Then I said:
“I’m not throwing them into the street today.”
“Good, because you can’t.”
“I know.”
“I need to say it anyway.”
“I want proper notice.”
“Sale?”
“Yes.”
“Certain?”
I looked across the guest room.
Ella still asleep.
“Yes.”
Sarah opened the old file remotely.
“The occupancy agreement is strong. They’re permissive occupants, but we still give reasonable written notice and follow state procedure. No self help. No changing locks while they lawfully remain.”
“Sixty days?”
“We can start there unless facts change.”
“Do it.”
“Christmas morning?”
“Yes.”
Sarah sighed.
“I’m drafting. You understand a notice of intent to terminate occupancy is not an eviction order.”
“Yes.”
“And a proposed sale notice is not a completed sale.”
“Yes.”
“Good. I like clients who don’t ask me to invent laws.”
By 8:06, she sent a formal letter.
Not dramatic.
Notice that I intended to terminate permissive occupancy effective March 1, subject to all required procedures.
Notice of my intent to prepare the house for sale.
Request that no alterations, liens, leases, subleases, or ownership representations be made.
Demand that all documents purportedly concerning transfer or ownership be preserved and sent to counsel.
That last paragraph was Sarah’s idea after I told her about “after Rebecca signs.”
I printed three copies at a twenty four hour business center near the hotel? Wait we were inside parents' house guest room. Could use their home printer. Better dramatic: I used Dad's study printer at 8:30 while house waking. Fine.
Ella woke while pages printed.
“What’s that?”
“Adult paperwork.”
“Is it because of me?”
I stopped.
“No.”
“Mom.”
“It happened because I finally paid attention.”
“That sounds like because of me.”
I sat beside her.
“The picture showed me something I should have handled a long time ago. You are not responsible for what I decide about my house.”
She studied me.
“Grandma’s house.”
“No.”
That was first time I told her.
“Legally, it’s mine.”
Her eyes widened.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Then why does Grandpa always say his house?”
“Because he lives here.”
“That’s confusing.”
“Yes.”
Nine year olds are excellent property lawyers.
At 9:05, we went downstairs.
Everybody was gathered around the tree.
Nicole wore cream pajamas that probably cost more than my winter coat.
Eric had coffee.
Dad sat in his recliner.
Mom was passing cinnamon rolls.
Ella stayed beside me.
Mom smiled as though Christmas Eve had been flawless.
“There you are.”
I walked to coffee table.
Removed the portrait from wall.
Dad sat forward.
“What are you doing?”
I placed it on table.
The frame rattled.
Nicole’s smile vanished.
“Who erased Ella?”
Silence.
Mom sighed.
“Rebecca.”
“Who?”
“Don’t make a scene.”
“I asked one question.”
Nicole crossed her arms.
“It was crowded.”
Ella’s hand tightened around mine.
I looked at her.
Then Mom.
“Ella said you told her there wasn’t room for her anymore.”
Mom’s face hardened.
“I said the composition was crowded.”
“No.”
Ella whispered:
“You said people who really belong.”
Diane turned.
“I never said that.”
Ella flinched.
I stepped between them.
“Do not call her a liar.”
Dad stood.
“Enough.”
“Not remotely.”
“This is Christmas.”
“Yes.”
“Take your drama somewhere else.”
He put one hand against my shoulder to steer me toward hallway.
I pushed his arm away.
Not him.
“Don’t touch me.”
His face went red.
“Excuse me?”
I picked up Ella’s glitter gift bag.
Kicked it across the rug.
Craft supplies spilled.
Glitter packets.
Plastic beads.
A unicorn stencil.
Every other grandchild stared.
“Do you know what Ella likes?”
Mom shouted:
“Stop it!”
“Name one book she loves.”
“That has nothing to do with…”
“Name one.”
Silence.
Nicole laughed nervously.
“God, you’re insane.”
I reached into my bag.
Pulled out envelope.
Dropped it into Mom’s lap.
“What’s this?”
“Page one.”
Dad snatched it.
Ripped open.
Read.
His face changed.
“What?”
“Out loud.”
“Rebecca.”
“Read.”
Nicole moved closer.
Eric finally put down his phone.
Dad’s voice slowed.
“Notice of termination of permissive occupancy… proposed disposition and sale of property…”
Mom stood.
“What the hell is this?”
“A beginning.”
“You cannot throw your parents out on Christmas!”
“I’m not. Read the date.”
Dad looked.
March 1.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Proper notice.
Mom screamed anyway.
“This is our house!”
“No.”
“Yes!”
I placed a certified copy of deed on table.
Owner:
Rebecca Morgan.
Nicole stared.
“I thought that was just refinance paperwork.”
“So did you.”
Dad’s face hardened.
“You know what agreement we had.”
“I know exactly. Sarah wrote it.”
That stopped him.
He remembered Sarah Keene.
Then Mom lunged for notice.
She tried tearing it.
I pulled it away.
“There are copies.”
“You can’t do this to family!”
I looked at Ella.
Then back.
“The homeowner can decide what happens to her property.”
Nicole sneered.
“Because Mom hurt your feelings?”
“No.”
“Because Ella isn’t center of attention for once?”
Ella lowered her head.
I moved closer to Nicole.
“Say another word about my child.”
She smiled.
“What?”
“Try me.”
Eric finally spoke.
“Rebecca, maybe everybody should calm down.”
I looked at him.
“You were here last night.”
His face changed.
“Yes.”
“You saw the portrait.”
“Yes.”
“And said nothing.”
He looked away.
“Then quiet is probably what you do best.”
Doorbell rang.
Everyone stopped.
Dad frowned.
“Who comes Christmas morning?”
I already knew possibility.
I opened.
Caleb Morris stood on porch wearing a winter jacket over a Northstar Portrait Studio polo.
He held a padded envelope and a USB drive.
Behind him, snow had started falling.
“Mrs. Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“I spoke with our owner and counsel. Because you are depicted in the original image, your minor child is the person removed, and the ordering customer has disputed the nature of the request through our call this morning, we prepared the materials we are permitted to provide. Anything beyond this may require subpoena.”
Nicole went pale.
I turned.
“Ordering customer?”
Caleb looked past me.
His eyes landed on Nicole.
“Yes.”
Nicole stepped backward.
“I didn’t dispute anything.”
Caleb frowned.
“Our studio received a call at 7:41 this morning asking us to say the child was removed accidentally.”
Nobody moved.
Caleb continued:
“The caller identified herself as Diane Miller.”
My mother’s face drained.
Then he held up the envelope.
“And we were instructed when the order was placed to keep a second version on file until after Mrs. Morgan signed something.”
I looked at Dad.
He looked at Nicole.
May you like
Nicole looked at Mom.
For the first time, all three realized they had been keeping different secrets from one another.
