Chapter 6 - The Unraveling
Derek stood on the front lawn, surrounded by cardboard boxes and cold autumn wind, feeling the earth completely open beneath his feet.
"Call her, Dad!" Derek yelled, grabbing his father's coat sleeve with frantic, childlike panic.
"Call Emma! Tell her to cancel the sale! She can't do this to me!"
My father dialed my number again, his thumb shaking so hard he misdialed twice.
This time, the call didn't go to voicemail.
The line connected on the third ring.
"Emma?" my father shouted into the receiver, loud enough for the entire cul-de-sac to hear.
"What in God's name have you done? There is a man standing on your porch claiming he bought the house for seven hundred thousand dollars!"
I sat on the wide outdoor balcony of my private room at the coastal resort in Cape Elizabeth, Maine.
The Atlantic Ocean was a brilliant, churning blue beneath the morning sun, and a warm ceramic mug of dark roast coffee rested in my hands.
"He isn't claiming, Dad," I answered evenly, my voice as calm as a summer lake.
"Marcus Vance bought the house. The funds cleared my brokerage account on Thursday afternoon."
My father let out a strangled, sputtering sound, struggling to breathe through his sheer outrage.
"You sold your family's home out from under us? Your brother's furniture is sitting on the street! We broke his apartment lease on Thursday!"
"That sounds like poor planning on Derek's part," I said, leaning back against the cushioned wicker chair.
"I remember distinctly asking him on Tuesday night if he had told anyone else he owned the house. He told me ownership was just paperwork."
"He is your brother, Emma!" my father roared into the phone.
"You took three-quarters of a million dollars and left your own flesh and blood homeless on a sidewalk! How can you be so selfish? Where are you right now?"
"Somewhere far away from your entitlement," I replied quietly.
"For eleven years, you treated my labor like a communal bank account while you threw money at Derek's every failure. You sat at my dining table, ate the food I cooked, and handed my keys to him like a piece of bread."
"We were trying to help him build a future!" my father barked defensively.
"Then help him with your own money, Dad," I said, my voice hardening into iron.
"Sell your Buick. Take out a second mortgage on your own house. You wanted Derek to have stability—now you can give it to him."
"Emma, please!" my mother’s voice suddenly cried out through the speaker, having snatched the phone from my father’s hand.
"Emma, darling, please listen to your mother! Derek has panic attacks! He can't sleep in a storage unit! Just give us half the money from the sale so we can put a down payment on a condo for him!"
I let out a quiet, genuine laugh that echoed over the Atlantic waves.
"Not a single penny, Mother. You told me on Tuesday to 'figure it out.' Now it's Derek's turn."
I ended the call, immediately blocked every single phone number associated with my family, and set the phone face-down on the wooden table.
Behind me, the room service attendant knocked gently, wheeling in a platter of fresh Maine lobster Benedict and fresh orange juice.
May you like
I took a deep, clean breath of the salty ocean air.
For the first time in thirty-eight years, I didn't owe anyone an explanation.
