Chapter 3 - The Panic of the Parasites
The shockwaves hit my parents' house faster than a winter storm. By December 27th, my phone was blowing up. First came a text from my brother Mark, demanding to know why his corporate direct deposit hadn't cleared. Then came a frantic call from my father.
“Claire, what have you done?” Dad barked through the speakerphone, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and sheer terror. “The bank rejected the transfer, and Mark’s boss—some HR drone—is asking questions about his title. Have you lost your mind?”
I sat at the kitchen island in the hotel suite, Emily playing quietly with a set of wooden blocks nearby. I pressed the phone to my ear, feeling a strange, cold calm wash over me.
“I haven’t lost my mind, Dad. I’ve just stopped funding your retirement.”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” Dad roared. “Richard is furious! He came over this morning looking like a thundercloud, saying you stole his daughter and walked out over nothing. He said if you don't crawl back by tonight, he’s going to sue you for parental alienation and cut off everything!”
“Let him try,” I replied evenly.
“You selfish little—do you realize what this means for us? Your mother hasn't stopped crying because the contractor won't finish the sunroom remodel without the next installment! And Mark has a mortgage!”
“Mark is a thirty-two-year-old man with an engineering degree. He can find another job,” I said. “And if Mom wants a sunroom, maybe you and she should pay for it yourselves.”
Before Dad could scream another profanity, I hung up and blocked his number.
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An hour later, my phone buzzed with an incoming email from Richard himself. It wasn't an apology. It was a formal legal letter drafted by his high-priced corporate counsel, demanding my immediate return to the marital home under penalty of financial ruin. Attached was a photo of our empty master bedroom, captioned with a single sentence: You have 24 hours to bring our daughter back before I tear you apart in court.
I forwarded the email straight to Susan Adler. Her response came back within minutes: Let him posture. We file first thing tomorrow morning.
