She showed up at my apartment on a Sunday afternoon holding a real estate listing printed on pink paper. She laid it on my coffee table and tapped it with one long pink fingernail.
It was a brick ranch on Dogwood Court in Marietta. Three bedrooms, two baths, a screened porch, and a fenced backyard with a dogwood tree in full bloom. Listed at $412,000.
“Look at that kitchen,” she breathed.
“It’s beautiful, Mom.”
“It’s perfect for you and Owen.” Her voice trembled. “Natalie, honey, I’ve been thinking. I’ve got a little saved up. With Kyle’s help, we could swing a mortgage. But the bank needs a down payment, and you’ve always been so good with money.”
I just stared at her.
“I’d put the house in my name for now. For the loan,” she went on quickly. “My credit’s better than it’s been in years, thanks to you. But someday, baby, this house belongs to you and Owen. I already told Kyle. It’s what your daddy would have wanted.”
I’d like to tell you I thought it through. I didn’t. I thought of Owen running around a yard with a dog. I thought of sleeping in a real bed. I thought of my father in his forklift cap.
“How much does the bank need?”
“Twenty percent. That’s eighty-two thousand, four hundred. Plus closing costs.”
“I have ninety-four.”
She put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, baby. I couldn’t.”
“You can.”
She refused for about four seconds.
The loan officer at the mortgage company, a cheerful man named Derek Lowe from Keystone Home Lending, called me the next week. He explained that because the down payment came from someone other than the buyer, the lender needed what he called “gift documentation.”
“It’s a standard form,” Derek said. “A gift letter saying the money is a gift and not a loan, so there’s no hidden debt. We’ll also need your last two bank statements showing the funds, and proof of the transfer.”
I emailed him my credit union statements that night. On a Tuesday afternoon I signed the gift letter at a UPS Store on Cobb Parkway, with my mother beside me in her good blouse. A notary named Mr. Pruitt stamped it and wrote my name in his journal.
The following Monday I wired $94,000 from my credit union to the escrow trust account at Alston & Greer, the closing attorneys. The wire fee was $25. I wrote the confirmation number on the inside of my wrist in blue pen, like a teenager writing a phone number.
It was every penny I had.
One week later, my mother showed up at my office.
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