MY MOTHER ARRIVED WITH A REAL ESTATE ATTORNEY. “WE GAVE YOU $400,000 FOR THIS HOUSE. WE WANT 50% OWNERSHIP ADDED TO THE DEED.” THEY HAD PAPERS READY. I ASKED, “THE MONEY FROM JUNE 2018?” DAD NODDED. “A GIFT THAT BIG DESERVES EQUITY.” I PULLED UP MY BANK STATEMENTS. “ACTUALLY, THE WIRE TRANSFER SHOWS ‘LOAN REPAYMENT’ IN THE MEMO LINE. YOU WERE REPAYING $400,000 I LENT YOU IN 2016.” THE ATTORNEY STOOD UP…
The doorbell rang at 9:47 a.m. on a Sunday. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Through the peepphole, I saw my mother standing on my front porch in her church clothes, the navy Chanel suit she wore when she needed to feel important.
Behind her stood a man in his 60s carrying a leather briefcase and my father arms crossed wearing what I’d started calling his disappointed patriarch expression. I opened the door. “We need to talk about your house,” Mom said, walking past me without waiting for an invitation. “The man with the briefcase followed.
” “Dad came in last, closing the door behind him with more force than necessary.” “This is Richard Brennan,” Mom announced, gesturing to the stranger now standing in my living room. examining my built-in bookshelves like he was appraising them. He’s a real estate attorney. We’ve retained him regarding a financial matter that affects this property.
My stomach dropped, but I kept my face neutral. I’d learned that skill over 33 years of family dinners. What financial matter? Mom sat on my couch, the one I’d saved 18 months to buy, and placed her purse beside her like she owned the place. We gave you $400,000 for this house. That was June 2018, nearly 7 years ago.
He paused, letting the number hang in the air. A gift that substantial deserves equity consideration. Richard Brennan opened his briefcase and pulled out a document at least 20 pages thick. Your parents have asked me to draft a deed modification that would add them as 50% owners of this property. Given their significant financial contribution to your home purchase, this is a reasonable request. I looked at my father.
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “We’re<unk> not trying to take anything from you, Maya,” he said, using the tone he’d perfected when I was 12. And he’d explained why he couldn’t attend my regional science fair because he had to watch my brother’s baseball game. “We’re just asking for what’s fair.
Half the money, half the house. That’s mathematics. The money from June 2018?” I asked. My voice came out steadier than I felt. Dad nodded. $400,000 wired directly to your account for the down payment. Without that money, you’d still be renting that apartment in the bad part of town. I turned to Richard Brennan.
Can I see that document? He handed it over. It was professionally prepared, formatted on cream colored legal paper. The deed modification would transfer 50% ownership to Linda and Robert Chin, my parents. There were signature lines already marked with those little sign here flags. They’d thought of everything. We brought Richard today because we want to resolve this amicably.
Mom said, “If you sign now, we can file everything this week. No lawyers for you. No unnecessary expenses. Just a simple correction of an oversight.” An oversight. That was the word she chose. I set the document on my coffee table. Actually, I need to show you something. Give me one minute. I walked to my home office, the room mom had said I was wasting by not making it a guest bedroom for when they visited.
I unlocked my desk drawer and pulled out a folder I’d labeled family financial records 2015 to 2019. Then I opened my laptop and navigated to my encrypted cloud storage. When I returned to the living room, Richard Brennan was standing checking his watch. Miss Chin, if we could expedite this the wire transfer, I interrupted, opening my laptop on the coffee table so everyone could see the screen.
You said the money came in June 2018, right? $400,000. You know it did. Dad said, “Don’t play games.” I pulled up my bank statement from June 14th, 2018. There it was. A wire transfer for $400,000 from Robert Chin. But I zoomed in on something my parents had apparently forgotten about or hoped I’d never check. The memo line read, “Loan repayment, principal amount.” The room went silent.
“This shows a loan repayment,” Richard Brennan said slowly, leaning forward to read the screen. “Not a gift. I opened my folder and pulled out a document.” “This is the promisory note from August 2016. My parents needed $400,000 urgently. Dad’s business partner had embezzled from their company and they were about to lose their house.
They came to me on a Tuesday night frantic. Mom was crying. Dad said if they didn’t cover the shortfall by Friday, the bank would start foreclosure proceedings. I handed the promisory note to Richard Brennan. He studied it carefully, flipping through the pages. It was notorized. My parents’ signatures were on every page. I was 26 years old, I continued.
I’d been working in clinical trial data management for 4 years. I lived in a studio apartment and drove a 12-year-old Honda, but I’d been saving aggressively and had invested in index funds since my first job. I had $417,000 in liquid assets. Mom’s face had gone pale. VA I withdrew $400,000 from my investment accounts.
