There was a violent pounding at the front door. At first I assumed it was the storm. But before Michael could reach it, the lock clicked, and three men pushed their way inside.
It unfolded in seconds.
One grabbed my arm. Another slammed Michael against the wall. The third shut and locked the door behind them.
They weren’t frantic. They weren’t shouting.
They were calm.
“Relax,” one of them said. “We don’t want trouble. Just sign a few documents and we’ll all walk away peacefully.”
They laid papers on the table.
Property transfer forms.
Our address printed neatly at the top.
My stomach dropped when I saw the name listed below.
Daniel Carter.
“Our son?” I whispered.
“He’s got debts,” the man said evenly. “Used the house as collateral. We just need your signatures to finalize the transfer.”
Michael tried to argue. One of them punched him hard in the stomach, stealing the air from his lungs.
They dragged us to the basement and locked the door. I heard furniture scraping above us—blocking exits, making sure we couldn’t interfere.
I began to cry.
“Our own son…”
Michael was breathing heavily, but there was something strange in his eyes.
Not fear.
Calculation.