My sister’s son hurled a dinner fork at me and declared, “Mom says you’re basically the help.” The table erupted in laughter. I was gone before dessert ever reached the plates.

Please prepare a notice of default and acceleration for 847 Maple Ridge Drive. Borrowers are 47 days past due. Per our agreement, I am exercising my right to call the full remaining balance ($298,000) due within 10 days.

Please file necessary paperwork and initiate foreclosure proceedings if payment is not received.

Best,
Nina

My hands were steady as I typed. That was the strangest part.

Inside, my chest felt full of bees.

But my fingers didn’t shake.

I read it twice, then hit send.

It went out at 11:43 p.m.

Six hours later, David replied. He was the kind of lawyer who answered emails before sunrise.

Documents prepared.
Courier will deliver this morning. Filing by noon.
Are you sure?

I thought about Aiden’s face. The fork. The laughter. The text: Know your place.

I wrote back:

Completely sure.

At 6:47 a.m., my phone rang.

Jessica.

I watched it buzz until it went to voicemail.

She called again. And again. Then Marcus texted.

Nina, what the hell is going on? Our bank just called saying our mortgage is in default and the full amount is due in 10 days. This has to be a mistake.

I took a slow sip of coffee before replying.

It’s not a mistake. I’m your mortgage holder. You’re 47 days late. I’m calling the loan due.

A long pause.

You’re our what?

Read the documents you signed. You don’t have a bank mortgage. You have a private mortgage with me. I own your house.

Three minutes passed.

This is insane. You can’t do this over a stupid argument at Thanksgiving.

My jaw clenched.

It’s not about Thanksgiving. It’s about 47 days of missed payments and years of being treated like hired help by people living in a house I own.

Jessica called again.

This time, I answered.

“Nina, please,” she said immediately. Her voice was high and tight, panicked. “What is this? We just got a call—notice of default, acceleration—”

“You’ll get the paperwork soon,” I said. “Courier is on the way.”

“You can’t be serious,” she snapped, panic flipping quickly into anger the way it always did with her. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I’m completely serious.”

“We can’t come up with $298,000 in ten days,” she said. “You know that’s impossible. We don’t have that kind of money lying around.”

I pictured Aiden standing on his chair, announcing my place.

“You should have thought about that before you taught your son to throw silverware at me,” I said quietly.

“He’s seven!” she shouted. “Kids do stupid things.”