Nine days later, I went into labor.
It was a Tuesday morning in October. Five a.m.
Daniel drove me to Northside Hospital. Patricia was already sitting in the passenger seat of his car when I came outside with my hospital bag. I had to sit in the back.
As we pulled out of the driveway, I turned around and looked at the house through the rear window.
The big oak tree. The front porch. My father’s study window.
I knew they’d been planning something.
I didn’t know they’d move forward while I was lying in a hospital bed.
Our daughter was born at 2:47 that afternoon. Seven pounds, two ounces. A full head of dark hair.
We named her Lily. After my mother.
I still remember the smell of the antiseptic. The soft, warm weight of her on my chest. I’d barely slept in thirty hours. My whole body was shaking. And every part of me was focused on keeping that tiny person warm and safe.
Daniel held Lily for less than five minutes.
Then he handed her back to me.
“I have to go handle something at the house,” he said.
At the time, I thought he meant diapers. Or the car seat. Or some paperwork.
Even then, after everything, some small part of me wanted an ordinary explanation.
I was wrong.
The next morning, while Lily slept beside me in her little plastic hospital bassinet, my phone rang.
Margaret.
“Claire. I need to tell you something. The title company in Marietta has confirmed it. Daniel and his mother signed a purchase agreement yesterday. For your former property.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did they actually sell it?”
“No. It can’t close. The house was transferred to your buyers sixteen days ago. It’s recorded with the county.”
I let out a long breath.
“So they failed.”
“They attempted to sell a property they did not own,” Margaret said carefully. “Claire, that’s very different from simply failing to sell a house.”
I looked down at my daughter.
“How much?”
“What?”
“How much did they agree to sell it for?”
Margaret was quiet for a second.
“Eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
I stared at the wall of that hospital room.
My father’s house. Worth three million dollars.
Daniel had agreed to give it away for less than a third of its value. Just to get it done fast. Before I got home.
“The buyer is an investor,” Margaret said. “He put fifty thousand dollars into escrow. He thought he’d found the deal of a lifetime. The title company called him this morning to tell him the seller doesn’t own the house.”
I thought about that man. Sitting in some office. Finding out his bargain was a lie.
I felt sorry for him.
He didn’t create this mess.
Daniel and Patricia did.
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