Chapter 6 - The Turning Tide
By Monday morning, the legal and financial pressure had completely pulverized my family's united front.
The strategy of screaming, throwing tantrums, and blocking open houses had yielded exactly zero results—unless you counted the local towing company hauling my father's Buick off to the impound lot on Saturday afternoon. That alone had cost them three hundred dollars in cash to retrieve, money they desperately needed for moving boxes.
My phone buzzed during the morning rush at my primary restaurant downtown.
It wasn't my mother or Tessa this time. It was my father.
I stared at his caller ID flashing on the screen for three rings before tapping accept.
"Ian," my father's voice sounded remarkable subdued, drained of all its usual blush and arrogance. The booming patriarch was gone; what remained sounded like a tired, defeated old man.
"Dad," I answered neutrally. "If you're calling about the Buick, you need to talk to the towing company, not me."
"No," my father sobbed loudly, the sound of rustling paper coming through the line. "I'm not calling about the car. Ian... can we meet? Just you and me. No your mother, no Tessa. Just lunch. My treat."
I hesitated. I had zero desire to subject myself to another guilt trip. But part of me wanted to see how the mighty had fallen.
"One o'clock," I said. "The diner on Fourth Street. Don't be late."
When I walked into the retro diner at 1:05 PM, my father was already sitting in a corner booth, staring blankly into a cup of lukewarm black coffee. Up close, he looked ten years older than he had last week. The deep lines around his eyes seemed etched in permanent stone, and his shoulders were permanently slumped.
I slid into the vinyl booth opposite him without saying a word.
A waitress rushed over, and I ordered a simple black coffee and a club sandwich. My father didn't order anything else.
"Well?" I urged, breaking the silence. "You wanted to talk, Dad. Talk."
My father kept his eyes fixed on his coffee cup, tracing the rim with a trembling thumb. "Your mother has been crying for three days straight, Ian. And Tessa... Tessa locked herself in her bedroom and refused to speak to anyone."
"They're welcome to pack their bags and leave whenever they're ready," I replied evenly. "Thirty days is generous. Most landlords wouldn't give squat to people who haven't paid rent since 2021."
"We don't have anywhere to go, Ian," my father whispered, finally looking up. His eyes looked watery and desperate. "We looked at apartments this morning. Rent in this city... it's triple what it used to be. On my pension and your mother's social security, we can't afford a two-bedroom place, let alone something that accommodates Tessa."
"Maybe Tessa should get a job."
"She's... she's trying," my father mumbled unconvincingly. "She applied to work at a boutique candle store down in the mall."
"Trying at thirty-two years old isn't a resume, Dad. It's an excuse." I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. "You spent thirty years enabling her. You coddled her, you bailed her out, you made excuses for her laziness, and you expected Clare and me to just stand by and fund the circus forever. Well, the well ran dry."
My father flinched as if I had struck him. He opened his mouth to argue, to fall back on his old habits of paternal lecturing, but the words caught in his throat. He knew I was right.
"Is there... is there any way you'd reconsider the house?" he asked, his voice cracked with pathetic hope. "Just let us stay on a formal lease? We'll pay rent. We'll scrape it together—"
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"No," I said instantly, leaving zero room for negotiation. "The house is already under contract review. A cash buyer made an offer twenty percent above asking price this morning. Melissa is finalizing the paperwork as we speak."
My father closed his eyes, his head dropped into his hands. The defeat was total.
