Chapter 17 - Three Attempts
The first attempted transfer had been prepared nearly a year before I moved out.
The second was drafted the week Tiffany took over the larger bedroom.
The third, the rejected filing we already knew about, followed my refusal to cooperate.
The timing made my skin crawl.
I had been making excuses for behavior that had been part of a plan for much longer than I'd imagined.
Rebecca emphasized that drafts alone weren't ownership transfers.
There was still no valid recorded deed moving my house out of my name.
But the sequence helped establish intent and a timeline.
We assembled it carefully.
I remembered every missing folder, every unexplained request for my driver's license, every time Harry had asked how the property taxes were paid.
Tiffany recognized another event.
Eight months earlier, Harry had arranged a dinner with Vanessa and called it a celebration of their business future.
He'd wanted me there.
I declined because my knee was bothering me.
He had been furious.
At the time, I thought he was disappointed that I hadn't supported him.
Now I wondered if he had expected me to sign something over dessert.
Rebecca gave me a practical choice.
We could concentrate on obtaining possession through the appropriate process and defending the civil claim, while allowing investigators to handle the disputed documents.
Or I could spend my days chasing every person connected to Harry.
There was no real contest.
I chose the house and my peace.
The court later dismissed the unsupported request that had sought to limit my dealings with the property.
The underlying disputes still needed resolution, but the attempt to force a hurried transfer had failed.
Meanwhile, Harry had not taken the flight after all.
Investigators wanted to speak with him about the documents, and his whereabouts became part of their work, not mine.
I learned to resist the urge to act like a detective.
The harder task was acting like a father without becoming a doormat again.
Tiffany called one evening after work.
She wanted to know whether I'd eaten, and she did not ask for money.
We talked about the weather and her mother's garden.
Then she said, “I drove past the house today. The lilacs are still alive.”
I closed my eyes.
“Your mother always said they'd outlast all of us.”
Tiffany gave a small laugh.
A real one.
Before hanging up, she asked whether she could help repair the water damage when the time came.
“I'll think about it,” I said.
The next morning, Rebecca emailed a status update.
The lender had completed its internal review and refused the application.
The purported authority form had been rejected.
The recording office had received notice of the disputed deed.
And the title specialist found no valid transfer in the public record.
For the first time since leaving, I could say a sentence without holding my breath.
“My house is still mine.”
Then Tiffany arrived at Frank's doorstep carrying a small metal box.
“Dad,” she said, “Harry left this behind the furnace.”
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Inside were Martha's missing jewelry receipts, a spare house key, and an unsigned document headed PETITION FOR GUARDIANSHIP.
