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.

“I’m not foreclosing,” I said after a long moment.

Silence.

“What?” she whispered.

“I’m not foreclosing,” I repeated. “I’m restructuring your loan.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, voice trembling.

“You’ll pay $2,800 instead of $2,400,” I said. “That covers the missed payments spread out. You’ll pay on time. End of five years, same buyout price. No markup.”

“Nina,” she breathed. “Thank you. I don’t deserve—”

“I’m not finished,” I cut in gently.

She went still.

“You’ll apologize publicly,” I said. “At Christmas dinner. In front of everyone. You will tell them the truth. You will tell them you called me ‘the help,’ and you will tell them I own your house.”

“Nina…” she started, fear creeping in.

“Those are my terms,” I said. “Payments and truth. Or foreclosure.”

A long beat.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“One more thing,” I added, voice cold now. “If I ever hear you call me that again, if I ever hear Aiden is taught that again, if you’re even one day late—one day, Jessica—I will not hesitate. I will call the loan due and follow through.”

“I understand,” she whispered. “I swear.”

When we hung up, the apartment felt too quiet.