Chapter 7 - Sarah Had Wanted To Sell Before The Repairs
Harbor sent Angela Morris the next morning.
She managed contractor accounts.
She did not arrive like a villain trying to seize our home.
She arrived carrying coffee.
That somehow made everything more adult and less satisfying.
We sat on the patio.
Caleb came too.
Angela laid out the numbers verbally first.
I appreciated that.
Twenty-six thousand four hundred eighty dollars in materials had been delivered to our address.
Harbor had received less than two thousand against that specific batch through Caleb's revolving account.
Some materials were still here.
Some installed.
Some removed.
Harbor wanted payment.
Sarah asked:
“Are you seriously saying we should pay for material Caleb took away?”
Angela shook her head.
“I’m saying your property is where our records show delivery.”
“We have security footage of his crew removing pallets.”
I hadn't known Sarah saved those clips.
Angela nodded.
“Good. That helps.”
Caleb looked ashamed.
Sarah continued:
“We will pay what stayed here once the amount is verified.”
I looked at her.
“We will?”
She turned.
“We need the lien gone.”
Angela said:
“If we agree on the material actually incorporated or retained at the property and receive payment, I can recommend releasing the lien here while we pursue Caleb's company for the rest.”
Caleb nodded.
“I’ll sign whatever.”
Angela looked at him.
“This isn't only about signing.”
“I know.”
She stood.
“I’ll send someone to verify quantities.”
After she left, Sarah remained outside.
Caleb went to unload the returnable siding.
I asked:
“How much are you prepared to pay?”
“As little as possible.”
“Sarah.”
She looked at me.
“We have about thirteen thousand left in liquid savings.”
That number hurt.
In May we had over sixty.
“If Harbor says fifteen stayed here…”
“We pay fifteen and we're almost wiped.”
“Yes.”
“And still need roof correction.”
“Yes.”
“And new insurance.”
“Yes.”
She stared at the backyard.
Then said:
“I wanted to sell in June.”
I thought I misheard.
“What?”
“Before the roof contract.”
I stared.
She looked exhausted.
“I pulled sales in the neighborhood.”
“You talked to a realtor?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I looked.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Her jaw tightened.
“I tried.”
“No, you didn't.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The night Bay State gave us the repair list.”
I remembered.
She had asked:
“What if we don't pour forty thousand into this place?”
I had answered:
“Then we lose insurance.”
She had said:
“Maybe we sell.”
I had laughed.
Not cruelly.
Worse.
Automatically.
As if the suggestion was absurd.
I remembered now.
Sarah watched my face.
“Yeah.”
I sat.
“You were serious.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you bring it up again?”
“Because you spent the next twenty minutes explaining why selling right after an insurance inspection would be stupid.”
“I thought financially—”
“I know what you thought.”
She looked toward the roof.
“I also knew how much this house means to you.”
“It means something to you.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
Sarah sat beside me.
“But I don't know if it means forty thousand dollars, a lien, an unlicensed contractor, and an insurance market trying to throw us out.”
“Those things weren't known then.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“But the cost was.”
I rubbed my hands together.
“Why do you want to leave?”
“I didn't say I do.”
“You said sell.”
“That isn't the same as wanting to leave.”
I waited.
Sarah looked through the sliding door into our kitchen.
“We bought this place eleven years ago for three hundred eighty thousand.”
“Yes.”
“It's worth maybe six-fifty now.”
“Probably.”
“We owe two-ten.”
I knew the numbers.
Of course I did.
She continued.
“Sometimes I look at that equity and think we live inside our entire financial life.”
That sentence stayed.
A house worth more than anything we owned.
Money we could not use without borrowing against the thing itself.
“And then every bad year,” she continued, “we defend it like it has feelings.”
I looked at the backyard fence I'd spent three weekends rebuilding.
“Do you want to list it?”
“I don't know.”
I hated the answer.
Sarah noticed.
“That's why I didn't bring it up again.”
“What?”
“You turn ‘I don't know’ into a problem to solve.”
I almost denied it.
Then thought about June.
The repair list.
Caleb.
My spreadsheets.
My insistence that every contractor deadline meant progress.
She continued.
“I didn't want you selling the house because I sounded scared one night.”
I looked toward the roof.
“And now?”
“Now I want us to understand what keeping it actually costs.”
Caleb walked back around the corner carrying an empty pallet.
He looked at us.
“You guys okay?”
Sarah and I both laughed.
Caleb frowned.
“What?”
I stood.
“Nothing.”
May you like
He looked suspicious.
For once, the problem in front of us was not his to fix.
Related Stories
