The House My Mother Tried to Take From Me

I didn't sleep that night.

At 1:17 a.m., I sat at my desk with my phone in one hand and my father's message glowing on the screen.

At 1:24, I typed a reply.

Who is this?

At 1:31, the answer came.

Andre. Your father.

I stood so quickly that my chair rolled backward and struck the wall.

My father.

The man I'd spent years imagining in different ways.

Sometimes I pictured him as a man who had forgotten my birthday. Sometimes I imagined him living in a huge house with a new family, never once wondering whether I had grown taller or learned to drive.

Now he was a name on my phone.

A real person who knew I existed.

I typed three different messages and deleted all of them.

Finally, I sent the only question that mattered.

Why didn't you come back?

His reply took nearly ten minutes.

I tried. I made mistakes. Your mother and I made decisions that hurt each other, and I believed staying away was the only way to keep things from getting worse. I should have found another way.

I sat down slowly.

He hadn't denied it.

He hadn't blamed everything on Mom.

He'd admitted he'd made mistakes.

Somehow, that made him feel more real than any story I'd ever heard.

My phone vibrated again.

I have thought about you every day, Malik.

I pressed my lips together.

Then another message appeared.

I still remember your birthday.

I looked at the digital clock on my desk.

It was October 29 in Birmingham.

It was still October 28 in Atlanta, where I sat surrounded by the wreckage of my fifteenth birthday party.

You remember my birthday? I typed.

October 28. You were born at 6:42 in the morning. Your grandmother called me from the hospital because your mother was exhausted and the nurse wouldn't let me into the room until someone confirmed who I was.

I read the message twice.

Nobody had ever told me that story.

I bought you a little blue baseball cap, he continued. It was too big for your head. I kept it for years.

I wiped my face with my sleeve.

Then I heard footsteps outside my bedroom.

I locked my phone and slid it beneath a textbook just as my door opened.

Mom stood in the doorway.

She wore a silk robe over her clothes, and her eyes moved immediately to the phone in my hand.

“Who are you texting?””

“Nobody.””

She held out her hand.

“Give me your phone.””

“Why?””

“Because I asked you to.””

I felt my stomach tighten.

“Mom, it's late.””

“And I'm your mother. Hand it over.””

I hesitated.

She stepped inside and closed the door.

“Malik, I know you've been talking to your grandmother. I know she's been showing you things she has no business showing you. I need to know whether she's contacted anybody else.””

“Like who?””

Mom's expression changed.

“Your father.””

I stared at her.

She noticed.

“Has he contacted you?””

My mouth went dry.

“No.””

It was the first time I'd ever deliberately lied to her.

She watched me for several seconds.

Then she walked to my desk and picked up my textbook.

My phone was beneath it.

She lifted the device.

“Unlock it.””

“Mom—”

“Unlock it, Malik.””

I entered the passcode with trembling fingers.

She opened my messages.

For one terrible moment, I thought the conversation would appear at the top of the screen.

But my phone had returned to the main menu. The messages were still there, hidden behind the notifications I'd cleared.

Mom scrolled through my recent conversations.

“Who is Darius?””

“My cousin.””

“I know who Darius is. Why has he been messaging you about family business?””

“Because he heard what happened at the party.””

Mom's jaw tightened.

She opened another conversation.

Then another.

Finally, she put the phone down.

“You're not to contact your father.””

I stared at her.

“You just asked if he contacted me.””

“And now I'm telling you that you're not to contact him.””

“Why?””

“Because he's not a good influence.””

“How would you know? You said he left.””

Mom's face flushed.

“Don't play games with me.””

“I'm not.””

She snatched my phone off the desk.

“You will not speak to him until I say so.””

She turned toward the door.

“Mom?””

She stopped.

“Did Dad know I was born?””

For a moment, she didn't move.

Then she answered without looking back.

“Yes.””

“Did he want to see me?””

Her shoulders rose and fell.

“Good night, Malik.””

She left with my phone.

I heard her lock the door from the outside.

The small metallic click echoed through the room.

I sat in the dark, staring at the empty space where my phone had been.

Then I noticed something I hadn't considered.

Mom had taken the device.

But she'd left my laptop.

I opened it and logged into the messaging account connected to my father's number.

The conversation was still there.

I typed slowly.

My mom knows something happened. She took my phone. I need to know the truth about the house.

His response came almost immediately.

Your grandmother has the original documents.

I stared at the screen.

Mom says Grandma did something before I was born.

The typing indicator appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Finally, he wrote:

Your grandmother made a mistake by trusting Renee with the paperwork. But she didn't change the deed.

Then who did?

The answer came in two messages.

Your mother filed documents claiming the house had been transferred to her.

But the transfer was never completed.

I read the words slowly.

What does that mean?

It means the county records should still show the original ownership arrangement. If nothing else changed.

My hands went cold.

What else could have changed?

This time, he didn't respond immediately.

When his message finally arrived, it was longer than the others.

Before I left Atlanta, I discovered that someone had borrowed money against the property. I confronted Renee. She said your grandmother had approved it. Your grandmother said she hadn't.

I was going to speak to a lawyer.

Then I received a letter saying I had no legal standing to challenge the property arrangement because I had signed away my interest.

I sat back.

Did you sign it?

No.

A second message followed.

That's why I left.

I stared at the screen.

The house wasn't just a disagreement between my mother and grandmother.

Someone had used it to borrow money.

Someone had filed documents.

And my father believed his signature had been forged.

Who did it? I typed.

His reply came after several minutes.

I never proved who was responsible. But I found something that may explain everything.

What?

An old mortgage application. It listed a second borrower. Someone whose name should never have been there.

Before I could ask who, a sound came from the hallway.

The lock turned.

I closed the laptop and scrambled into bed.

My bedroom door opened.

Mom stood there holding my phone.

She walked to the desk, placed it beside the lamp, and studied me.

“Did you sleep?””

“A little.””

She glanced at the laptop.

“Were you using this?””

“No.””

She didn't believe me.

I could tell by the way her eyes lingered on the screen.

But instead of questioning me, she sat on the edge of my bed.

For the first time that night, she looked tired.

“I know you think I'm the bad person in all this.””

I said nothing.

She smoothed a wrinkle from my blanket.

“I worked hard to give you this life. I didn't have anyone holding my hand when I was your age. I had to make decisions that people like your grandmother never understood.””

“Did Dad try to come back?””

Mom's hand stopped moving.

“Why are you asking that?””

“Because I want to know.””

She stared at me.

Then she stood.

“Your father made choices. So did I. Some things are better left in the past.””

“Is that why you don't want me talking to him?””

She walked to the door.

“It's because I love you.””

She switched off the light.

“Get some sleep.””

The door closed.

I waited until her footsteps disappeared.

Then I turned my laptop back on.

My father's final message was waiting.

Malik, listen carefully. Your grandmother may have kept the original deed, but the person who helped your mother borrow money against the house was someone we both trusted.

A second message appeared.

And I think that person is coming to your house tomorrow.

I sat motionless.

Downstairs, the front door opened.

Mom spoke to someone in a low voice.

A man's voice answered.

I couldn't make out the words.

Then I heard Mom say one name.

“Victor, you promised me this would stay buried.””

The name meant nothing to me.

But when I searched my memory, I remembered seeing it written on the back of an envelope in Grandma's handbag.

Victor Hale.