Gregory Alston took off his glasses and set them on the folder.
“Mrs. Mercer, please sit down.”
She sat.
“For the record,” he said, “I cannot proceed with this closing as it’s structured. The gift affidavit represents that the donor intended to give funds to both named buyers. The donor has stated, credibly in my professional judgment, that she was not aware of the second buyer. That is a material defect. Under the lender’s own requirements, a gift that’s in dispute can’t be used to fund this loan. Until the matter is resolved, the funds will stay in our trust account, untouched.”
“You can’t do that,” Kyle said.
“I can, and I am.”
“We’ve got movers coming at four! Mom gave notice on the apartment! Mom, tell him!”
“Mr. Mercer,” Alston said calmly, “your purchase contract has a financing contingency. Your financing depends on a valid gift. The gift is disputed. I suggest you consult your own attorney. And I’d suggest you turn off your phone.”
Kyle looked down. The little red light was still glowing. His phone had recorded every word, including our mother shouting “Because she’s selfish” and admitting she never told me about the deed.
He grabbed it and stabbed at the screen until it went dark.
It was too late, and all of us knew it.
A cloud passed over the sun, and the room went gray. The gift basket sat in the middle of the table, ridiculous and cheerful, with its silver ribbon, its bottle of sparkling cider, and its little potted fern.
My mother had started to cry. It wasn’t the polished weeping behind the handkerchief. It was raw and messy. Tears cut tracks through her face powder, and a small, hurt sound came out of her throat.
Kyle sat motionless beside her, staring at the table.
I looked at the two of them and thought of a fourteen-year-old girl in a school uniform, standing alone in a kitchen doorway, reading a note on the fridge.
“Mom,” I said. “Do you want to know what I want?”
She raised her wet face.
“Natalie,” Helen murmured.
“It’s okay. I want to say it.”
Alston nodded.
“I want my money,” I said, low and clear. “All ninety-four thousand dollars, wired back to my account at Northside Community Credit Union. Today.”
“On your written instruction, I can authorize the return of the funds from escrow to the originating account this afternoon,” Alston said.
“Thank you.”
“Natalie,” my mother whispered. “I gave my landlord notice. My lease ends Sunday. There’s a truck coming. Where am I going to go?”
I looked at her. It was the first honest question she’d asked me in years. She sat there small and gray and shaking in her church dress, her hands knotted in her lap.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think we can figure it out.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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