Chapter 10 - MASON FINALLY PICKED A SIDE
Mason called Dad before I could stop him.
“What are you doing?”
I could hear Dad shouting through the phone.
Mason put it on speaker.
“Selling the house.”
“For half its value?”
“It’s complicated.”
“No. Briar’s lawyer says it’s worth over eight hundred thousand.”
Dad went silent.
That was the first time I realized something had changed.
Mason had said:
Briar’s lawyer.
Not:
Briar is being dramatic.
Dad recovered.
“Stay out of this.”
“It’s my home too.”
“Then act like it.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your sister is trying to take everything.”
Mason looked at me.
For years, that sentence would have worked.
Not anymore.
“She paid everything.”
“She chose to.”
“No.”
His voice changed.
“We expected her to.”
Dad said nothing.
Mason continued.
“I laughed when you threw her out.”
He looked sick saying it.
“I thought it was funny because I never believed anything bad would happen to me.”
Then:
“You taught me that Briar would fix it.”
I had to look away.
Dad snapped:
“This isn’t therapy hour.”
“No.”
Mason picked up his car keys from my counter.
“It’s accountability hour.”
He told Dad he would not sign any document connected to the house.
Dad cursed.
Mason hung up.
I stared at him.
“Why would he need your signature?”
“I don’t know.”
Lydia did.
The original home-rescue agreement Grandma created years earlier included an occupancy protection clause.
Any sale below seventy-five percent of appraised value required written acknowledgment from adult family residents.
Dad needed Mason to cooperate.
And he assumed I wouldn’t know.
The private sale was blocked that afternoon.
Dad responded by sending me seventeen messages.
Ungrateful.
Vindictive.
Cold.
Brainwashed by lawyers.
The final message:
You are destroying your mother.
That one almost worked.
Almost.
Then Mom called.
“I’m leaving him.”
I sat down.
“What?”
“Your father.”
She sounded exhausted.
“He told me the house sale was a refinance.”
“Mom.”
“I know.”
“No, listen.”
I closed my eyes.
“You don’t get to say you didn’t know every time you chose not to look.”
Silence.
Then:
“You’re right.”
I wasn’t prepared for that.
She continued.
“I knew enough.”
My anger shifted.
“I knew you were paying too much.”
She cried.
“I knew your father had used trust money.”
“I knew the signature wasn’t yours.”
“I told myself we’d fix it later.”
Same family sentence.
Later.
The place where accountability went to disappear.
Then Mom whispered:
“There’s something you should know about Christmas Eve.”
“What?”
“Your father wanted you out before December twenty-six.”
“Why?”
“The trust audit letter was coming.”
My stomach tightened.
Dad knew the independent trustee planned to review the accounts the day after Christmas.
May you like
He hadn’t thrown me out randomly.
He wanted me gone before the evidence arrived.
