“You owe us a roof after everything we lost!” Lennox shouted, sweeping my framed wedding photograph off the mantel.
The frame struck the carpet, and my son Terrence dragged two suitcases into my living room without asking whether they could stay.
Behind them stood a woman in a dark suit holding an envelope marked PERSONAL DELIVERY.
“Not until you explain what happened,” I said.
Lennox snapped, “We don’t owe you an audit.”
Three years earlier Terrence had inherited a substantial settlement from his grandfather.
He’d told me it would be enough to start a business, buy a modest house, and set aside savings for their daughter.
I was happy for him.
I even helped review his first budget.
Now the money was gone, and Lennox insisted their only option was to move into my house.
They hadn’t asked what space I had or what my plans were.
They had arrived assuming family loyalty would turn my spare bedroom into their permanent address.
Terrence said a business partnership had failed.
Lennox said medical costs and inflation had eaten the rest.
Neither explanation quite accounted for the expensive jewelry she wore or the new car still idling in my driveway.
I didn’t mention those things.
I asked to see their actual obligations so we could work out what help might be useful.
Lennox demanded immediate access to the bedroom instead.
The woman in the dark suit cleared her throat.
She was a process server, she explained, and asked whether Terrence lived at this address.
I said he didn’t.
Lennox looked genuinely startled to see her.
Terrence accepted the envelope anyway.
Inside was notice of a civil claim brought by two people who said they’d invested in his startup and had not received promised financial records.
He folded the papers quickly, but I’d already seen one familiar surname.
The claim named my old friend Patricia.
We had known each other since our children were small.
She had never told me she was investing in Terrence’s business.
I called her after the couple went into the kitchen.
Patricia sounded relieved to hear from me.
