“Monday, please. And ask Derek to come too.”
She agreed.
But I could tell she was already forming her version of events.
And in that version, I was the bad guy.
That’s how it always works with Derek.
He lights the fire. And somehow, I’m the one holding the matches when everyone looks over.
That weekend was brutal.
Derek didn’t call me, but he called everyone else.
My aunt, my cousin Tyler, two of my mom’s friends.
I know this because they all called me with some variation of, “Derek says you took his house. What’s going on?”
I gave the same answer each time.
“There’s a family meeting Monday. I’ll explain everything then.”
Vanessa texted me Saturday night.
Just one message.
“I looked up your LLC. I know.”
I wrote back.
“I’m sorry you’re finding out this way.”
She replied, “Don’t be sorry. Be honest. On Monday.”
Derek, meanwhile, was not handling things quietly.
He posted on Facebook.
Nothing direct, but the kind of vague grievance post that people who know him could decode.
Something about family betrayal and people showing their true colors and “trust no one.”
He got 47 sympathy comments from people who had no idea what was actually happening.
Sunday, I went to church.
I’m not particularly religious, but Uncle Ray used to say that sometimes you need to sit in a quiet room with high ceilings and just think.
So, I sat in a pew in the back and went over my plan for the meeting.
I had the file Patricia prepared. Clean, factual, dated.
It covered the duplex purchase and foreclosure, the Arturo Vance loan terms, the HELOC draw against my parents’ house, the payoff I’d made, and the current state of Derek’s other debts.
Every claim backed by a document.
No opinions. No accusations.
I also had a proposal.
I’d written it out longhand on a yellow legal pad, then typed it up.
It was simple.
I’d offer to sell the duplex back to Derek at my auction purchase price, interest-free, with a five-year payment plan, on the condition that he sit down with a financial counselor, disclose everything to Vanessa, and never touch my parents’ credit again.
I wasn’t trying to punish him.
I was trying to build an exit ramp.
Monday morning.
My office is a small suite in a professional building near the county courthouse.
Chapter 8: The Family Meeting
Patricia was already there when I arrived, sitting in the conference room with the file laid out neatly on the table.
She brought coffee and those little butter cookies from the Italian bakery on Third Street because apparently that’s what you serve when you’re about to dismantle someone’s financial facade.
My parents arrived at 9:00.
Dad looked confused.
Mom looked like she’d been crying again.
“Nathan, what is all this?” Mom said, looking at the conference room like I’d set up a courtroom.
“Sit down, Mom, please.”
“Where’s Derek?”
“I told him 9:00. Let’s give him a few minutes.”
We waited.
At 9:15, the front door opened.
Derek walked in wearing a suit jacket over a T-shirt, which was such a Derek move, I almost laughed.
Vanessa was behind him.
She wasn’t touching him.
They sat across from my parents.
I sat at the head of the table. Patricia sat at the other end.
Derek looked at Patricia.
“Who’s this?”
“My attorney.”
“You brought a lawyer to a family meeting?”
“She’s here to make sure everything I say is accurate. Nothing more.”
Derek crossed his arms.