I Just Finished Chemo And Found My Locks Changed. My Daughter Handed Me A Trash Bag Of My Clothes And Said I Was No Longer Her Problem. Now, I Own Every Cent Of Debt She And Her Husband Have. Who Is The Dead Weight Now?
The Warning
My daughter left a note on the kitchen counter that said:
“I’m done with you. This house is sold. Pack your things and make room for real people.”
I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I flipped the paper over and wrote just two words.
Hours later, my phone exploded with 49 missed calls, voicemails, apologies, and panic. But by then, the damage was done. Because those two words weren’t a reply; they were a warning.
The Cold Chicago Wind
The Chicago wind does not care if you have just spent 4 hours with a needle in your arm, pumping poison into your veins to kill the cancer before it kills you. It cuts right through your coat and settles in your bones.
I stepped out of the yellow taxi in front of my home on Dearborn Street, and the cold hit me like a physical blow. I am 73 years old, and I have lived in this city all my life. But that wind never gets any warmer, especially when you are standing on the sidewalk shivering from chemotherapy side effects.
The taxi driver asked if I needed help getting to the door, but I waved him off. I am Gerald Sullivan. I built half the skyline in this neighborhood, and I do not need help walking up the steps of the house I bought with cash 30 years ago.
The house is a classic brownstone worth $1.8 million in today’s market. But to me, it was just the place where I raised my family and where I watched my wife, Patricia, take her last breath. It was my sanctuary. Or at least I thought it was until I tried to put my key in the lock.
The metal scraped against metal, but the cylinder would not turn. I frowned and jiggled it, thinking maybe the cold had frozen the mechanism, but my hands were shaking so bad it was hard to tell. I tried again. Nothing.
I took a step back and looked at the heavy oak door. I had refinished that door myself, stripping away layers of old paint to reveal the beautiful wood grain underneath. I knew every inch of this house because I had restored it with my own sweat and blood.
Then I looked at the keypad above the handle, the smart lock I had installed for convenience. I punched in my code, four digits I had used for 10 years. The little light blinked red. Access denied.
I punched it in again, slower this time, forcing my trembling fingers to be precise. Red light. Access denied.
Locked Out
A knot of panic started to form in my stomach right next to the nausea from the chemo. I was freezing. My body felt like it was made of lead, and I needed to use the bathroom desperately.
I pressed the doorbell. I could hear the chime echo inside, deep and familiar. I waited. Nothing happened. I pressed it again, and then I started pounding on the wood with my fist.
“Madison, open the door!”
I shouted. My voice sounded weak even to my own ears.
“It is freezing out here. Open the damn door!”
I saw the curtain on the front window twitch. Someone was watching me. A moment later, I heard the heavy deadbolt slide back, but the door only opened a crack, stopping abruptly as the security chain caught.
My daughter, Madison, peered out through the gap. She was 38 years old and wearing a silk blouse that probably cost more than my first car. Her face was perfectly made up, but her eyes were cold—colder than the wind biting at my neck.
“Dad,” she said. Her tone was flat, impatient, like I was a door-to-door salesman interrupting her dinner. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” I repeated incredulously. “I live here, Madison. I just got back from the clinic. Let me in. I need to sit down. I need the bathroom.”
She did not move to undo the chain. In fact, she leaned her weight against the door as if to make sure I could not push my way in.
“You cannot come in,” she said simply. “We are busy.”
“Busy?” I coughed, and the spasm sent a sharp pain through my chest. “Madison, stop playing games. I am sick. I am tired. Open this door before I freeze to death on my own porch.”
“You are not going to freeze,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And you do not live here anymore. Not really. We talked about this.”
