“I don’t know,” she said again.
And this time the words were smaller.
And I believed her, because that was the most honest answer, and also the most difficult one.
She had not thought past the point of not having to make a decision. She had been waiting for the situation to resolve itself in some direction that would not require her to choose a side.
She was twenty-seven years old.
She had grown up being the one things were arranged for, not the one who arranged them.
I did not think she was a bad person.
I thought she had never been asked to sit with discomfort long enough to understand what it meant.
“I’m not going to cut you off,” I said. “But I need you to understand something. You knew for two weeks. And you didn’t call me. That was a choice. It may not have felt like one, but it was. And I’m going to remember that it was made.”
The silence that followed was a different kind than the ones before it. Heavier. The kind that means something is settling rather than building.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
“Is there anything I can do?”
I thought about it genuinely.
“No,” I said. “There isn’t. Not right now.”
We said goodbye.
I put the phone down on the table and sat with the quiet of the kitchen for a while. I thought about Pat’s brother, who had called four times in six years, and each call had been about money. I thought about the difference between someone who says I’m sorry because they understand what they did, and someone who says I’m sorry because they want the conversation to end.
I was not sure yet which one Brianna was.
I was not sure she knew either.
What I did know was that the mechanics of what had happened were now fully clear to me and fully documented, and that it was time to act.
The next morning I arrived at the office early and walked directly to the corner office at the end of the hall, where Gerald Marsh, the firm’s senior partner, had been practicing real estate law for thirty-seven years.
I knocked on the open door.
He looked up from whatever he was reading and waved me in.
I sat across from him and explained the situation in the order it had occurred. He listened without interrupting, which was his way.
When I finished, he was quiet for a moment.
“You filed the lien yourself?” he said.
“Eight months ago.”
He looked at me with an expression I could not fully read. Something between professional respect and mild concern.
“You know you could have come to us.”
“I know,” I said. “I wanted to handle the initial filing myself. I’m asking for your help now.”
He nodded slowly.
“What do you need?”
“Two things,” I said. “A cease-and-desist letter, addressed to my mother, outlining that she attempted to list a property to which she had no legal claim, that she signed a document as authorized representative without authorization, and that any further contact with real estate agents or title companies regarding this property will be treated as an ongoing legal matter.”
Gerald picked up a pen.
“And the second thing?”
“Leon Bassett will be filing a complaint with the North Carolina Real Estate Commission regarding the misrepresentation he received when my mother contacted him. I want us to send a supporting letter to the commission documenting the instruments on file and confirming the unauthorized nature of the listing attempt.”
Gerald wrote for a moment. Then he set the pen down and looked at me.
“This is going to make things complicated with your family.”
“They’re already complicated,” I said.
He held my gaze for a moment.
Then he opened a drawer and removed a fresh legal pad.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s start with the cease and desist.”
The letter went out by certified mail four days later.
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