Chapter 5 - An Empty House on Paper
I had inherited the house from my grandmother five years earlier, while Ethan and I were married. She called it the Maple House, although no maples grew on the narrow street anymore.
The place had chipped paint, creaking pipes, and a kitchen that faced a neglected apple orchard. To me, it meant Sunday biscuits and the sound of Grandma Joan singing off-key while she washed dishes.
To Margaret, it was land waiting to be liquidated.
That afternoon, Dad brought in a lawyer named Tessa Park. She was younger than I'd expected, wearing sneakers under a navy suit, and she introduced herself without treating me like a helpless patient.
"We can ask for a protective order," she said. "But I want you to understand the other fight. An unauthorized real estate sale can cause trouble even before money changes hands."
I showed her my wrist band and the shaky photographs Dad had taken of the contract.
"Is a witness signature enough?"
"No. The buyer will also need proof of authority to sign. That's what worries me."
She made two calls, then returned with bad news.
A power of attorney had been recorded at the county clerk's office three weeks earlier. It gave Ethan authority to convey my property.
"I didn't sign a power of attorney."
"The clerk accepted a notarized document," Tessa said. "That doesn't prove it's genuine. It means we need to challenge it immediately."
Sophie woke in Dad's arms. She looked at the bandage on my wrist and began crying again.
"I tried to stop him," she whispered.
"Your job is to be seven," I told her. "What happened is not yours to fix."
She touched my hand, then turned to Tessa.
"Daddy has another house," she said.
The room went quiet.
"How do you know?" Tessa asked gently.
"He keeps pictures in the locked drawer. There is a lady standing next to him, and he told Grandma we're almost ready to move."
For a moment I couldn't speak. We had argued about money, but I had never imagined Ethan had already planned a life without us.
Dad slipped the small silver key onto the bedside table.
Tessa photographed it.
"Don't go searching the house alone," she warned. "We'll get lawful access to whatever evidence we need."
As she finished speaking, her phone rang. She read the caller ID and her expression hardened.
"That was the county recorder," she told us after a short call. "Someone just filed a second document."
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"What document?"
"A notice claiming you are no longer competent to manage your own affairs."
