Chapter 8 - The Closing Table
The closing took place in a sterile, windowless conference room at the title company downtown.
The room smelled of fresh printer toner and stale coffee. A large mahogany table dominated the center of the room, flanked by leather chairs. On one side sat my attorney and me. On the other side sat my parents' real estate attorney—my parents themselves had wisely chosen not to appear in person, knowing full well that if they crossed paths with me, the paperwork might combust from sheer atmospheric pressure.
Even Brittany wasn't there. Only a stack of thick legal binders, carbon paper, and a digital notary pad.
"Alright, Ms. Vance," the title officer said, sliding a stack of documents toward me with a cheerful, detached professional drone. "We just need your signature on the quitclaim deed, the settlement release, and the wire transfer authorization form."
I picked up the heavy metal pen.
My hand didn't shake. The ink flowed smoothly across the heavy parchment paper, my signature clean, bold, and entirely unhesitating.
Mara Vance.
Page after page. Initial here. Sign there. Acknowledge receipt of funds. Release of all future claims.
When I signed the final document relinquishing my one-third share of the family colonial, a strange, profound lightness washed over me. It felt as though a lead weight I had been carrying strapped to my chest since childhood had finally been unbuckled and dropped onto the floor.
"Congratulations," the title officer said, stamping the final document with a heavy, satisfying thump. "The wire transfer for three hundred thousand dollars has been initiated to your designated account. It should clear by tomorrow morning."
I stood up, shaking hands with Attorney Franklin, whose fee was automatically deducted from the escrow payout—every penny of it well earned.
"Call me if they ever try to breach the non-contact clause," Franklin said with a wink as we walked out to the elevator bank. "Though I doubt they will. You terrified them, Mara. And sometimes, that's the only language people like that understand."
I walked out of the downtown office building and stepped into the warm afternoon sunlight.
The air smelled of roasted peanuts from a street cart and exhaust fumes. Across the street, children were laughing as they chased each other around a public fountain.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. A notification from my banking app flashed across the screen:
May you like
Deposit Received: $300,000.00.
I stared at the numbers. Three hundred thousand dollars. Enough for a down payment on our new townhouse, enough for Ruby’s college fund, enough to ensure that never again in our lives would we have to stand on a porch and beg for space where we weren't wanted.
