At his office in downtown Chicago, he reviewed the deed, the transfers, the lease agreement.
“Legally, there’s no question,” he said, removing his glasses.
“The house belongs entirely to you.”
“Your son and his wife are tenants. Her mother… is just a tolerated guest.”
“And my tolerance is running out,” I replied quietly.
We prepared two documents.
The first: an updated lease agreement for Alexander and Emily.
No third party could live in the house without my written consent.
They signed it—relieved.
The second…
Was for Patricia.
A formal notice.
Fifteen days to leave.
Or face legal action.
Cold.
Clear.
Legal.
The notice would be delivered the same day as the party.
And now—
Here we were.
In the living room I had paid for.
With her tacky decorations.
Patricia thought she was in control.
“You look tense, Cathy,” she smirked.
“Did the truth bother you?”
“Money can’t buy class, sweetheart.”
I smiled slightly.
“You’re right about one thing, Patricia. Money can’t buy class.”
“But it does buy houses.”
“And this one…”
“I bought.”
I opened the folder.
Pulled out the first page.
A copy of the deed.
My name.
Bold.
Right there.
I placed it in the center of the table.
“‘Catherine Reed—Owner,’” one of the relatives read aloud.