Chapter 6 - THE PRICE OF BEING THE RESPONSIBLE DAUGHTER
“Kayla helped Mom write the complaint,” I said.
Daniel looked at the report.
“That's what it says.”
I read the final paragraph again.
My mother claimed she'd been pressured into transferring ownership of the family home because she feared becoming homeless.
There was no mention of the foreclosure.
No mention of the overdue property taxes.
No mention of the repairs I'd paid for.
And certainly no mention of the one-dollar lease.
“Daniel, I can explain every transaction.”
“I believe you can.”
“Then let me.”
Angela leaned forward.
“We'll review your documentation, Emma. But this also needs to be examined by the agency that received the complaint.”
I nodded.
My professional instincts understood the process.
My heart understood something else.
The woman I'd spent four years protecting had accused me of exploiting her.
And my sister had helped her do it.
I drove to Mom's house that afternoon.
Kayla's car was in the driveway.
I found them in the living room, sitting together on the couch.
Neither looked surprised.
I placed a copy of the complaint on the coffee table.
“Who wrote this?”
Mom glanced at Kayla.
“I signed it.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Kayla lifted her chin.
“Mom had a right to protect herself.”
“From what?”
“From losing her house.”
I looked at Mom.
“You signed a complaint saying I threatened you into giving me the property.”
She folded her hands.
“I felt pressured.”
“Because the bank was foreclosing?”
“Because everything happened so quickly.”
I sat across from her.
“Mom, we had three meetings about the transfer. You spoke with the closing agent without me in the room. You were offered time to get independent advice.”
“I was frightened.”
“I know. I was frightened, too.”
My voice cracked.
“I was thirty-one years old. I had spent years saving for my own place. I gave that up because I couldn't stand the thought of you losing Dad's house.”
Mom looked down.
“You never told me how much you sacrificed.”
“I did, Mom.”
I remembered showing her my savings statement.
Explaining that I'd have to keep renting my apartment.
Telling her I couldn't afford another emergency for a while.
She'd nodded.
Then she'd asked if I could help Kayla replace her car.
I swallowed the memory.
“You didn't want to hear it.”
Kayla stood.
“Stop making Mom feel guilty.”
I turned toward her.
“Do you understand that you could have cost me my job?”
Her expression faltered.
“I wasn't trying to.”
“You used my signature. You used my company's name. You helped write a complaint accusing me of stealing this house.”
Mom suddenly spoke.
“Kayla thought the complaint might help us negotiate.”
I stared at her.
“Negotiate what?”
Mom's eyes filled.
“Getting the house back.”
There it was.
Not confusion.
Not a misunderstanding.
They had believed that accusing me would give them leverage.
“You wanted me to sign the deed back to you,” I said.
Mom whispered, “I wanted to feel secure.”
“And what would have happened when Kayla needed another loan?”
Neither answered.
I stood.
“I won't punish you for being afraid. But I won't reward you for lying.”
Two days later, a county adult protective services investigator named Patricia Greene met with Mom.
I wasn't present during the interview.
That was appropriate.
If Mom had genuinely been exploited, she needed the freedom to speak.
But Patricia also requested documentation of the original property transfer.
I provided the closing records, mortgage settlement history, tax receipts, and lease.
I included a summary of every major repair I'd paid for.
The new roof.
The replacement furnace.
The electrical work.
Even the emergency plumbing repair Mom had called me about during Thanksgiving dinner.
I didn't submit those records to shame her.
I submitted them because facts mattered.
And for once, I wasn't willing to let my family's feelings replace them.
While the investigation continued, I met the two other customers listed in Kayla's records.
A young couple had paid $4,200 to reserve an apartment near the hospital.
A retired teacher had paid $6,500 for a furnished townhouse.
Neither property had been available through Kayla.
Both customers had believed Cedar Ridge was involved.
I told them what I knew.
I also told them they should document their losses and report what happened.
One woman asked whether I could simply repay everyone.
The question hurt more than she realized.
“I wish I could make everything right immediately,” I said. “But I wasn't part of these agreements, and I can't use company money for them.”
She looked disappointed.
I understood.
People who had lost money didn't care which member of my family had caused the problem.
They needed their savings back.
That evening, I took Ruth and Lucy to see a furnished apartment I could arrange for a short stay through a separate local rental agency.
It wasn't as large as Mom's house.
But it had two bedrooms, a small balcony, and a playground nearby.
Ruth walked through slowly.
Lucy went straight to the bedroom with the yellow curtains.
“Grandma!”
Ruth followed her.
“Look,” Lucy said. “Buttons can sleep here.”
She placed her stuffed rabbit on the windowsill.
Ruth turned toward me.
Her eyes were wet.
“I can't afford another deposit right now.”
“I've covered the first two weeks personally,” I said. “After that, we'll work with the agency and your daughter on something affordable.”
“Emma, you shouldn't have to.”
“I know.”
I smiled sadly.
“But Lucy needs somewhere safe tonight.”
For the first time in days, I felt I'd done something useful.
Not something that made everybody happy.
Something that was right.
When I returned to my apartment, Kayla was sitting on the steps outside.
I nearly walked past her.
“Emma.”
“What?”
“I heard you helped Ruth.”
“Yes.”
She stared at her shoes.
“I was going to find her another place.”
“When?”
“I don't know.”
I unlocked my door.
Kayla followed me inside only after I invited her.
She looked around my apartment.
It was modest.
Two bedrooms.
Secondhand dining chairs I'd restored myself.
A couch I'd bought on clearance.
She frowned.
“I thought you'd have a nicer place.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“You make so much money.”
I looked around.
“This is what I can afford while paying for Mom's house.”
She said nothing.
I opened the kitchen drawer and took out a folder containing my personal budget.
I didn't show her everything.
Just enough.
Property taxes.
Insurance.
Maintenance reserves.
The roof replacement.
The money I'd lost from my savings when the foreclosure happened.
Kayla studied the figures.
Her face slowly changed.
“You've been paying all this?”
“Yes.”
“I thought the house was paid off.”
“The old mortgage was settled. Ownership doesn't make the other expenses disappear.”
She sat down.
For the first time, she seemed to understand that my salary wasn't an endless supply of free money.
“I didn't know,” she whispered.
“You never asked.”
She looked toward the window.
“Mom said Dad left money for both of us.”
“He did?”
Kayla nodded.
“She said you controlled it after he died.”
I frowned.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
She studied my face.
Then looked away.
“Forget it.”
“No. What money?”
Kayla shook her head.
“I can't do this right now.”
Before I could press her, she stood and left.
I watched her go, troubled by the sudden mention of Dad's money.
But another problem arrived before I could investigate.
My credit-monitoring service sent an alert that evening.
A new commercial credit account had been reported under my name.
I opened the details.
Lender: Harbor State Business Finance.
Original balance: $56,000.
Account holder: Emma Parker.
I stared at the screen.
I had never applied for that loan.
Never signed for it.
Never authorized anyone to borrow against my credit.
Then I saw the linked business name.
Second Start Housing.
My sister's company.
I sat frozen at my kitchen table.
The fake invoices had been bad.
The rental deposits were worse.
But this was different.
Because Kayla hadn't only stolen other people's money.
May you like
She had borrowed fifty-six thousand dollars using my identity.
And the first payment was already overdue.
