“Bella,” he started, “can you explain to me why you believe your parents, who contributed $15,000 to your down payment and whom you love very much, would deliberately destroy your property?”
“I don’t believe they thought of it as destruction,” I said carefully, exactly as Gregory had coached me. “I believe they thought they had the right to make these decisions because they’ve never respected my ownership of the property. But intention doesn’t change the fact that they hired contractors to demolish my kitchen and living room without my permission.”
“But you did give permission, did you not? At dinner when your mother mentioned the renovations.”
“No. My mother mentioned something about updating at some point. I wasn’t paying full attention, and I may have made a noncommittal sound. That’s not the same as giving permission for the level of work that was done.”
“So, you admit you weren’t paying attention to your own mother—”
Gregory put a hand on my arm.
“That’s not a question. Please move on.”
The deposition went on for three hours.
They asked about my relationship with my parents, with Jacob, about how often I used the house, about my finances, about whether I was jealous of my brother’s marriage.
They tried every angle to paint me as an unreasonable, difficult person who was making trouble over nothing.
I answered every question calmly and factually, exactly as we had practiced.
When it was over, Gregory told me I had done well, but I felt hollowed out and exhausted.
“They’re going to settle,” he said as we packed up. “That deposition did not go the way they hoped. Your testimony was clear and consistent, and there’s nothing they can use against you. Plus, we have the contractor testimony. They know they’re going to lose at trial.”
“When?” I asked.
“Could be weeks, could be a couple of months. But it’s coming.”
I drove back to the lakehouse that evening.
The restoration was nearly complete, the contractor having worked steadily for the past three months.
The kitchen looked almost exactly as it had before.
The living room was finished, the hardwood refinished, new drywall painted, furniture replaced.
It looked like my house again.
But it didn’t feel the same.
Four months after the initial incident, I received a call from Gregory on a Tuesday morning.
“They’re offering to settle.”
“For how much?”
“Full cost of restoration plus your legal fees. No admission of wrongdoing, but a statement that they regret the misunderstanding and will not contest your ownership of the property.”
I thought about it.
The restoration had cost $87,000.
My legal fees were up to $40,000 and climbing.
This would make me whole financially, even if it did nothing for the emotional damage.
“What do you recommend?” I asked.
“Take it. I know you want them to admit they were wrong, but you’re not going to get that. This gets you paid back and ends the legal battle. You can move on with your life.”
Moving on with my life.
That sounded good.
Except I knew my family would tell everyone they had done nothing wrong, that they settled just to end my vindictive lawsuit, that they were the bigger people for not dragging this through the courts.
The narrative would still paint me as the problem.
“Give me twenty-four hours to think about it,” I said.
That night, I sat on the deck of my lakehouse, looking out at the water under the moonlight.
The house was mine again, fully restored, legally protected.
The lawsuit would end.
I would get my money back.
Everything would go back to normal.
Except it wouldn’t, because normal had meant being the family member who was expected to accommodate everyone else.
Normal had meant watching Jacob get preferential treatment and staying quiet about it.
Normal had meant letting small violations slide until they became big ones.
I didn’t want normal anymore.
I called Gregory the next morning.
“I want to counteroffer.”
“All right. What do you have in mind?”
“Full cost of restoration, legal fees, and an additional $100,000 in damages for emotional distress and loss of use of property. Plus, a written apology signed by both parents that acknowledges they did not have permission to hire contractors or authorize work on my property, to be provided to the contractors and filed with the county property records.”
Gregory was quiet for a moment.
“That’s going to push us back toward trial. They’re not going to agree to that.”
“Then we go to trial,” I said. “I’m done pretending this wasn’t as bad as it was.”
Two weeks later, my parents rejected the counteroffer.
Their attorney called it outrageous and vindictive and said they’d rather take their chances with a jury than give in to my extortion.
Gregory scheduled the trial for eight weeks out.
I spent those weeks preparing more depositions, this time of my parents and Jacob.
I was not present for those, but Gregory told me they did not go well for them.
My mother got emotional and defensive.
Continued on next page:
ADVERTISEMENT
