My family operated under a convenient amnesia regarding one brutal fact: the roof over their heads legally belonged to me. Five years ago, to save them from bankruptcy, I paid off their staggering debts and let them live there for free. But provide humans with a complimentary house for half a decade, and it morphs into an entitled human right.
Watching my wife silently grab her coat, I decided to burn their kingdom to the ground. Walking to my car, I dialed my ruthless real estate broker.
“Melissa. The residential property on Brookfield. The one my family occupies.”
“I have the file. What’s the situation?”
“List it. Market price. I want it liquidated immediately.”
A brief pause. “Are your current occupants vacating?”
“They are about to,” I said icily.
“Do they know?”
I glanced through the bay window. My father was casually retrieving the shoe and handing it back to my sister with a gentle pat on her shoulder.
“No,” I said.
