Chapter 7 - The Promise Behind the Wedding
The next morning I went to Natalie instead of waiting for her to come to me.
I asked her to meet at a small café near her office, somewhere Preston and Deborah couldn't simply walk into the conversation as though they owned it.
She arrived twenty minutes late and avoided looking me in the eye.
I ordered coffee and waited.
Finally she said, “Preston told his parents we'd have a house after the wedding.”
“You do not have my house.”
“I know.”
“Did you tell him that?”
She rubbed at the rim of her mug.
“He thinks you're going to leave it to me.”
“Eventually,” I said.
Her face reddened.
The truth emerged in reluctant pieces.
Preston's parents had offered to cover part of the wedding if the couple could demonstrate a stable housing plan.
Preston had presented my property as part of that plan.
Deborah had talked up the house to friends, contractors, and a lender.
The wedding deposits were real.
The money they expected from Deborah was conditional.
And at the center of it all was my unspoken cooperation.
I asked Natalie why she hadn't corrected them.
“Because I thought you'd be happy for me.”
“I am happy when good things happen to you.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“Because taking my home isn't a good thing happening to you.”
She turned away, blinking rapidly.
I saw the child who used to crawl into my lap after a bad day at school.
I also saw a grown woman who had let her fiancé publicly dismiss me.
Both were real.
“I wasn't expecting you to move tomorrow,” she said.
“That's a very low standard for consideration.”
Her phone lit up with a message from Preston.
She showed me the screen as if it proved her helplessness.
Did she sign yet?
My heart thudded.
“Sign what?”
Natalie stared at the message, horrified by her own mistake.
“It's just paperwork.”
“Show me.”
She shook her head.
I stood.
“We're finished until you're ready to tell me the truth.”
She reached across the table and grabbed my wrist.
“Mom, please.”
I stopped, and she immediately released me.
“It's a letter,” she whispered.
“Preston drafted something saying you'd allow us to stay in the house during renovations.”
“Where is it?”
“At our apartment.”
“Has it been signed?”
“No.”
I wanted to believe her.
I asked her to email me a copy while we sat there.
She did, her hands trembling.
I opened the attachment and read the first paragraph.
The document described me as a future resident of assisted living and identified Preston as the proposed manager of substantial property improvements.
The second page contained a blank signature line under my name.
The third page was worse.
It stated that Natalie and Preston had my verbal consent to begin planning the transfer.
I had given no such consent.
When I looked up, Natalie was crying silently.
“Mom, I thought it was just to show his parents.”
I sent the document to Evelyn.
Then I looked at my daughter and asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Are you afraid of Preston?”
She stared at me for so long I thought she might finally answer.
May you like
Instead she said, “You don't know what he's like when plans fall apart.”
