Lucas Mercer.
My mouth went dry. Lucas—twenty years gone, the man who left the boys a string of half-truths and broken promises—was buying our house. I hadn’t seen his face since he’d signed away visitation and then vanished on the day of the first school concert. My hands trembled so hard the paper blurred. My sister watched me like a cat waiting for a mouse to stir.
“You knew him?” she asked casually, as if his name meant nothing.
I laughed, not a laugh. “I raised the kids, Helen. I kept them at school recitals and sat up with fevers. He ghosted us.”
She shrugged. “He gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse. They’re practically paying me to leave.”
The chair scraped. I thought of every night I worked double shifts, every scraped knee I kissed, the deed that didn’t bear my name. I folded the file with deliberate care, the sound loud in the tiny kitchen.
“I won’t let you do this,” I said. Not please, not maybe. Will.
Helen’s smile curdled. “What are you going to do? You don’t own half of it.”
I walked out before she could answer, phone already in my hand. There would be no pleading, no bargaining. I called the title company, demanded the contract, the closing date, the signatures. I called a lawyer I knew from hospital board meetings and explained custody, contribution to renovations, and the spiraling, impossible betrayal.
By the time I hung up my hands were steady. My sister could sell the house, but she couldn’t sell our history, our bond with those boys, or the legal record of who paid what. I picked up the photo box, stacked proofs and receipts, and drafted emergency filings, affidavits, witness statements, then looked at the boys and promised: I will fight.
