I worked long hours as a financial analyst at an investment firm in Denver, Colorado, and my relationship with my father had been tense for years, yet part of me still wanted to believe family dinners meant something good.
When I arrived that evening the house looked strangely formal with polished dishes and my mother Elaine Turner hovering nervously near the stove. My sister sat beside her husband Dustin Walsh, a man who talked constantly about business ideas that rarely succeeded, and my father remained at the head of the table with a glass of whiskey.
We chatted politely for about twenty minutes until my father slid a large manila envelope across the table and told me to open it.
“What is this?” I asked cautiously while touching the edge of the envelope.
“It is paperwork for Brittany’s new house,” my father replied calmly. “The bank just needs another name on the mortgage so they will approve the loan.”
Brittany smiled sweetly. “We only need you to co sign as a guarantor,” she said. “It is not a big deal.”