“Live here?” I whispered. “Baby?”
“Jennifer is pregnant,” my mother called out from her chair, smiling. “Isn’t it wonderful? We’re going to have a grandbaby, and they can’t stay in that tiny apartment.”
My father continued, “We talked about it. This house sits empty half the week. It’s selfish for you to keep it all to yourself. Marcus needs a home. This is perfect for them. We’re adding a second floor to the garage for me and your mother so we can help with the baby.”
I looked from my father to Marcus.
They were looking at me with total entitlement. There was no shame.
They had planned my life for me. They had decided that my property was community property.
“I never agreed to this,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “I never said Marcus could live here. I never authorized construction.”
Marcus rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be a brat, Bella. You have the condo in the city. You make plenty of money. You don’t need this place. We’re family. We decided this was the best solution.”
“We decided,” I repeated.
“Yes,” my father said sternly. “We had a family meeting about it last Sunday. You were working, as usual, so we made an executive decision. We hired the contractor Monday.”
“How?” I asked. “How did you hire a contractor? You don’t own this house. I do.”
The contractor, a burly man with a clipboard, walked over. He looked confused.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Hail?” he asked my father.
“No problem,” my father said. “My daughter is just emotional.”
“I am the owner,” I told the contractor. “I am Isabella Hail. I did not hire you.”
The contractor frowned.
“I have the contract right here, ma’am. Signed by Isabella Hail. And I have the power of attorney document attached to the permit application.”
I felt like I had been punched in the gut.
“Show me,” I demanded.
The man handed me the clipboard.
I looked at the signature at the bottom of the work order. It read Isabella Hail.
It was a good forgery, but it was not mine.
And behind it was a copy of a power of attorney document. I scanned it. It claimed I had given my father full legal authority over the property. It was notarized.
I looked at my father.
“You forged my signature.”
He shrugged.
“I signed it for you. It’s the same thing. I’m your father. I know what’s best.”
“You committed fraud,” I said.
“Oh, stop using big words,” Marcus snapped. “We’re fixing up your dump of a house. You should be thanking us. We’re increasing the property value.”
“Who is paying for this?” I asked, looking at the crew of five men.
“You are,” my father said. “I used the credit card you gave me for emergencies. The deposit was ten thousand dollars. We’ll need another twenty soon.”
They took control of my house.
They used my money to damage my house.
And they planned to move in and push me out.
I looked at my mother. She was still sipping her tea. She did not seem concerned.
I looked at the house. My sanctuary had been violated.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab a hammer and break something just so they could understand what destruction felt like. The anger was a physical pain in my chest. It felt like my ribs were cracking from the pressure.
But then something shifted.
A cold clarity washed over me.
If I screamed, they would call me unstable. If I cried, they would tell me I was overreacting. They expected me to throw a tantrum and then give in.
That was what I always did.
I always complained and then paid the bill.
Not this time.
I took a deep breath. I handed the clipboard back to the contractor.
“Isabella,” my father said, a hint of warning in his voice. “Don’t start drama.”
I did not look at him. I did not look at Marcus.
I turned around and walked back to my car.
“Where are you going?” Marcus yelled. “We need to pick out the tiles for the bathroom.”