Chapter 4 - THE DINNER PARTY
The guests were not family.
That became important.
Two were Vanessa’s coworkers.
One was a real-estate agent named Kelly.
Another was a mortgage broker.
The others were neighbors.
Vanessa had invited them for what she called a “family transition dinner.”
Mom had cooked all morning.
Pot roast.
Mashed potatoes.
Green beans.
Two pies.
At sixty-six, with arthritis in both hands.
Vanessa had invited eight people and made the person she claimed was lucky to live there serve them.
The plate broke because Mom’s grip slipped.
Vanessa slapped her in front of witnesses.
Then called her maid.
Nobody had stopped it.
That bothered me almost as much as Brandon.
After I put the deed on the table, nobody touched their food.
Vanessa kept reading.
“This isn’t current.”
“It is.”
“Brandon told me—”
I turned.
“What did Brandon tell you?”
My brother looked sick.
Vanessa snapped the folder shut.
“He said this house was his.”
Mom whispered:
“Brandon.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I said it would eventually be mine.”
“Why?”
He looked at Vanessa.
Not me.
That answered enough.
“Because when we moved in, she asked why we were living in Mom’s house.”
“And you were embarrassed.”
His shoulders dropped.
“Yes.”
“So you lied.”
“I thought…”
“What?”
“I thought eventually you’d transfer it.”
I stared at him.
“Why would I?”
“I’m her son too.”
“This isn’t inheritance.”
I pointed toward Mom.
“She is alive.”
Nobody spoke.
“That house exists so she has somewhere secure to live while she is alive.”
Vanessa laughed nervously.
“Fine. Rachel owns it technically.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“The trust owns it.”
“Same difference.”
“It isn’t.”
Vanessa waved toward Mom.
“She wanted Brandon to handle things.”
I glanced at the power-of-attorney papers.
“Did she?”
Mom looked down.
Vanessa answered:
“Yes.”
I kept my eyes on Mom.
“Mom.”
Her fingers tightened around the keys.
“Did you ask Brandon to become your financial agent?”
A long pause.
“No.”
Vanessa’s face hardened.
Helen added:
“They said it would make things easier.”
“Who is they?”
My mother looked at my brother.
Then at Vanessa.
“Both of them.”
Brandon closed his eyes.
The real-estate agent quietly picked up her purse.
“I think I should go.”
“No.”
Everyone looked at me.
My voice surprised even me.
“You all just watched a sixty-six-year-old woman get slapped.”
The agent froze.
“If anyone leaves, please make sure you leave your contact information.”
Vanessa laughed.
“For what?”
I took out my phone.
“For the police report.”
That was the moment her confidence finally cracked.
May you like
Not because I owned the house.
Because she realized I did not intend to treat what I had witnessed as a private family disagreement.
