I told myself it didn’t matter.
Apparently, it had mattered to him.
I continued.
“You did not marry me for the house.”
“In fact, the ugliest irony is that if anyone in this family has an old claim to this property, it is you.”
I read that sentence three times.
Then I opened the folder.
Property records.
Bank statements.
Old contracts.
A handwritten agreement dated May 1987.
At the top were three names:
Franklin. Linda. June.
My mother’s name.
I looked at Mr. Delgado.
“What is this?”
“I think you should keep reading.”
The house sat on four acres outside town.
Everyone called it Frank’s house because he and Linda had lived there for nearly 40 years.
Frank told me they built it themselves when Brad was a baby.
That was true.
Just not complete.
In 1987, Frank’s small construction company was about to collapse.
A developer owed him money and filed bankruptcy.
Frank had payroll due, equipment loans, and a half-finished house he could no longer afford to complete.
Linda was pregnant with Stephanie.
They were weeks from losing everything.
