Chapter 5: The Things She Thought We Didn't Know
Our attorney's name was Patricia Holt.
She had handled our purchase contract, our title search, and our escrow from the beginning.
When I forwarded her the text at eleven-seventeen that night, she replied within twenty minutes.
*Forward the number.
I'll have someone run it by morning.
Don't respond.*
I didn't sleep much.
By six-thirty the next morning, Patricia had sent me a name.
The number belonged to a man named Dennis Farrow.
He was a property attorney.
His office was in the same zip code as Lucas's apartment.
I showed Gabriel over coffee before Beatrice was awake.
He read it twice.
"Lucas hired a lawyer," he said.
"Or Beatrice did, through Lucas."
Gabriel set the mug down.
"What could they possibly claim?
Her name is not on anything."
"Patricia says there's a doctrine called equitable interest.
If someone can prove they contributed financially to a property and relied on an expectation of continued residence, they can sometimes make a claim."
"She hasn't contributed a dollar."
"I know that.
But they may argue she contributed in other ways.
Labor.
Domestic services.
Caretaking."
Gabriel was quiet for a moment.
"She doesn't take care of Mateo.
You do.
She criticizes how you do it, but she doesn't do it."
"I know."
"So what does Patricia say?"
"She says the claim would almost certainly fail.
But if they file a motion before Friday, they could request a temporary injunction to delay the closing while the court reviews it." I looked at him.
"That's what the text meant.
They don't need to win.
They just need to slow us down long enough that the buyer walks."
Gabriel's hands were very still around the mug.
"How long would that take to resolve?"
"Weeks.
Maybe longer."
He stood up from the table and walked to the window.
The backyard was gray and quiet in the early morning.
Mateo's bicycle was leaning against the fence.
"Did Patricia say what we should do?"
"She said to get documentation together.
Proof that Beatrice made no financial contribution to this property.
Bank records.
The original loan from my mother.
The deed.
Everything."
"I can pull the bank records today."
"There's something else." I hesitated.
"Patricia asked if we have any record of my mother's loan.
Any written agreement, any transfer record, anything."
Gabriel turned from the window.
"Your mother gave us a personal check.
We deposited it.
It would be in the bank records from eight years ago."
"I know.
But Patricia wants something that shows the intent.
That it was a loan, or a gift, for the down payment specifically.
Something that connects Sophia directly to this house."
We looked at each other.
"I'll call Mom," I said.
I stepped outside to make the call.
Sophia answered on the second ring.
"Good morning, sweetheart."
"Mom, I need to ask you something and I need you to think carefully.
When you sent us the money for the house — eight years ago — did you write anything down?
Did you keep any record?"
A pause.
"I wrote you a letter," she said.
"When I sent the check.
I always write letters."
My heart moved.
"Do you still have a copy?"
"I keep copies of everything I write.
It's in the blue folder in my filing cabinet at home.
Why?
Is something wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong," I said.
"Can you read it to me?"
She set the phone down.
I heard her moving through the house — the sound of a drawer, the soft shuffle of papers.
She came back.
"Here it is.
Shall I read the whole thing?"
"Please."
Her voice was steady and clear.
*Dear Camila and Gabriel.
I am sending this check for thirty-one thousand dollars.
It is not a loan because I do not want it back.
It is my contribution to the home where my daughter and her family will build their life.
Your father would have wanted this.
Use it well.
All my love, Mom.*
I stood in the backyard with the phone against my ear and said nothing for a moment.
"Sweetheart?
Are you there?"
"I'm here, Mom." My voice was steadier than I expected.
"Can you take a photo of that letter and send it to me right now?"
"Of course.
But Camila — what is happening?"
"Someone is trying to delay the sale of the house.
They want to claim they have a right to it."
Silence.
Then, quietly: "That woman."
"Yes."
Another silence.
Then the sound of her moving again, purposeful now.
"Give me two minutes," she said.
"I'll send you the clearest photo I can."
The letter arrived in my messages four minutes later.
I forwarded it to Patricia before I went back inside.
And when I walked through the door, Beatrice was already in the kitchen, dressed and composed, pouring herself coffee as if it were any other morning.
She looked at me over the rim of her cup.
"Sleep well?" she said.
May you like
"Very," I said.
I sat down at the table and opened my phone and did not look at her again.
