Chapter 3: What the House Was Always Worth
"What about the house, Sloan?"
My voice came out steadier than I felt.
I was standing in the kitchen, the bank papers still spread across the table in front of me.
I hadn't moved them.
I didn't want to move them.
"We've been here a year," Sloan said.
"We've contributed to this household.
We've maintained it.
There's a legal argument to be made for—"
"Stop."
She stopped.
"Say it plainly," I said.
"What are you claiming?"
A pause.
Then, carefully: "Adverse possession laws in this state allow a person who has lived in and maintained a property for a continuous period to make a claim.
Harrison has spoken to a lawyer."
The kitchen felt very small suddenly.
"Harrison." I said his name the way you say a word you've just learned means something terrible.
"Harrison, are you still on this call?"
"Mom—"
"Are you trying to take my house?"
"It's not like that."
"Then tell me what it's like."
He exhaled.
"We just want security.
We've been here a year.
We've paid for things.
Sloan looked into it and there's a real case—"
"Your father built this house," I said.
"He poured the back patio himself.
He planted the oak tree in the front yard the year you were born.
He d*ed in the bedroom at the end of the hall.
And you are telling me Sloan looked into it."
Silence.
"We're not trying to hurt you," Harrison said.
"We just need stability."
"You need stability." I looked at the bank papers.
"Is that what eighteen thousand dollars was for?
Stability?"
"That's a separate issue."
"It is not a separate issue.
It is the same issue.
It has always been the same issue." I pulled the top page toward me.
"I want you both out of my house by the end of the month."
Sloan's voice came back, and the smoothness was gone.
"You can't do that.
We have rights as occupants.
You'd need to go through a formal eviction process.
That takes months.
And while that process is underway, we will absolutely be filing our claim."
She had rehearsed this.
Every word of it.
"You've already filed," I said.
It wasn't a question.
Another pause.
Shorter this time.
"The paperwork was submitted this morning," Sloan said.
I set the phone on the table without hanging up.
I could still hear them — Harrison saying my name, Sloan saying something low and satisfied — but I wasn't listening anymore.
I picked up the bank papers and walked to the back door.
The fire pit was cold now.
Grey ash, a few metal grommets from the Gucci bag's strap sitting in the center like small, useless coins.
I stood there for a long time.
Then I went inside, sat down at the kitchen table, and called my late husband's attorney.
His name was Gerald Foss.
He had drafted the deed.
He had drafted the will.
He had known our family for thirty-one years.
He picked up on the second ring.
"Lorraine," he said.
"I've been wondering when you'd call."
I stopped.
"You knew?"
"Harrison came to see me four months ago.
Asked about the property.
Asked about occupancy rights." A pause.
"I told him I couldn't advise him on a claim against his mother.
He left and didn't come back."
"So he found someone else."
"Apparently."
I pressed my hand flat against the table.
"Gerald.
Can they do this?"
"Adverse possession requires continuous, open, hostile, and exclusive possession for a statutory period.
Living in your guest room while you cook their meals does not meet that threshold.
But it will cost you time and legal fees to establish that, and they know it."
"They're counting on me not fighting."
"Yes," he said simply.
"They are."
I looked at the ash in the fire pit through the window.
"Then they've miscalculated," I said.
Gerald was quiet for a moment.
"I'll need to see the bank statements.
All of them."
"I'll bring them tomorrow."
"Lorraine." His voice shifted, just slightly.
"The account Harrison accessed — was it the joint account your husband set up, or the secondary one?"
May you like
I went still.
"There were two accounts?"
