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.

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.