Caroline sat down the report.
“Rebecca, I understand your hurt, but Mom and Dad are in a difficult position financially. I know I’ve been contributing to help, but you have the means to solve the problem completely. You could sell them the house back at cost, or even at a small profit. Help them generate the rental income they need.”
“Why should I?”
The room went silent.
“Because they’re our parents,” Caroline said quietly.
“And I’m their daughter. Have they ever asked about my success, my career, my life beyond whether I’m contributing enough financially?”
No one answered.
“I bought that house because I wanted to preserve it. Keep it in the family. I’ve maintained it beautifully. I’ve rented it to good tenants. I’ve treated it with respect.”
“Then let us rent it,” Mom pleaded.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll try to buy it back. You’ll scheme and negotiate and make my life miserable trying to get ownership. I know how this works.”
“That’s not true.”
“You hired a forensic investigator to find out who owned it. You applied to rent it with plans to sublease it. You’ve been treating this like a game to win instead of a closed transaction.”
James leaned forward. “What do you want, Rebecca?”
“I want to be left alone. I want to own my property in peace. I want to stop being treated like the family member who doesn’t matter unless you need something from me.”
“That’s not how we treat you,” Mom said.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
“Really? When’s the last time you asked about my work, my life, anything beyond my monthly contribution?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought.”
Mom pulled out another document.
“Fine. You want to be treated differently? Here.”
She slid papers across the table. A purchase agreement.
“We’re offering $3.4 million for the house. That’s the current appraised value. We’ll pay you in full. You’ll make $300,000 profit on a four-year investment, plus whatever rent you’ve collected.”
“I’ve collected $298,200 in rent over four years, minus $87,000 in property taxes, insurance, and maintenance. Net rental income: $211,200.”
They stared at me.
“So total profit if I sold today: $511,200. That’s a 16.5% return over four years.”
“Exactly,” Mom said. “You’ve done well. Now sell it back to us and everyone wins.”
“Except I don’t want to sell.”
“Why? You just said you’ve made a good profit.”
“Because it’s not about profit. It’s about principle.”
“What principle?”
“The principle that you don’t get to kick me out of my childhood home, sell it because you wanted the cash, then demand I give it back when your financial planning doesn’t work out.”
Mom’s face went red. “We didn’t kick you out. We needed to downsize.”
“You told me you were selling. Then you didn’t sell for four years. By then I’d already moved out and established my own life. The sale wasn’t about downsizing. It was about cashing in.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, Mom. You taught me that every time you compared me to Caroline and James.”
Caroline stood. “Rebecca, this is getting out of hand.”
“Is it? Or is it finally honest?”
“What do you want?” James asked again.
I looked at my family—my mother, who’d hired an investigator; my siblings, who contributed more money than me because they assumed I had less.
“I want you to sign something,” I said.
“What?”
I pulled out a document I’d had David draft just in case.
“It’s a family agreement. It states that Morgan Property Trust’s ownership of the Queen Anne property is acknowledged and accepted by all family members. That no further attempts will be made to purchase, rent, or claim the property. That my ownership is respected and final.”
“You want us to sign away our rights to our own house?” Mom was incredulous.
“It’s not your house. It hasn’t been your house since July 15, 2020. This just formalizes that reality.”
“And if we don’t sign?”
“Then I stop contributing financially. No more $2,000 a month. You figure out Dad’s care on your own.”