Parents Sold My ‘Abandoned’ House – They Didn’t Know It’s Protected Diplomatic Property
The Peton Family Christmas
The Peton family Christmas had all the usual elements: a tree that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, catered food from the most expensive restaurant in Georgetown, and my family’s certainty that they knew what was best for everyone—especially me.
I sat in the corner of the living room wearing my customary simple sweater and jeans, watching my older sister Natalie show off her new Mercedes to our parents while my brother-in-law Richard discussed his latest tech startup acquisition. At 36, I’d learned to occupy space quietly at these gatherings, present but unremarkable.
“Alexis,” my mother Barbara called out, not bothering to come closer, just projecting her voice across the room like she was summoning a servant. “More wine. The Bordeaux, not that cheap California nonsense your father insists on buying.”
“Of course, Mom,” I said, standing and moving toward the kitchen.
“Still playing the beautiful daughter,” Natalie murmured as I passed. “Some things never change.”
In the kitchen, I poured Mom’s wine with steady hands. Through the window, I could see my father’s Bentley in the driveway parked next to Natalie’s new Mercedes and Richard’s Porsche. My 10-year-old Honda Civic was relegated to the street.
“Alexis,” Dad’s voice boomed from the living room. “Come in here, we have news.”
I returned with the wine, handing it to Mom before taking my seat again. Dad, Thomas Peton III, stood by the fireplace like he was about to deliver a boardroom presentation. At 67, he still ran Peton Capital Management with an iron fist, managing $800 million in client assets and never letting anyone forget it.
“Your mother and I have made an executive decision regarding your property situation,” he announced.
An Executive Decision
Something cold settled in my stomach.
“My property situation?”
“That house you bought in Spring Valley,” Mom said, waving her hand dismissively. “The one you never use. It’s been sitting empty for 3 years, Alexis. Just sitting there accumulating dust and wasting equity.”
“It’s not empty,” I said quietly. “I use it when I’m in town.”
“You’re never in town,” Natalie interjected. “You’re always traveling for work.” She made air quotes. “Doing whatever it is you do. That house sits vacant 340 days a year. It’s wasteful.”
“We sold it,” Dad announced proudly. “Got an excellent price too—$2.8 million, well above market value. The buyer wanted a quick close, so we handled everything.”
The room tilted slightly.
“You sold my house?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Mom said. “It was the sensible thing to do. The property was in your name, yes, but you’d added us as co-owners when you bought it, remember? You said you wanted our financial expertise in case anything happened to you.”
I did remember. Four years ago, when I’d bought the property, I’d been new to my position and uncertain about the legal complexities. I’d asked my parents for help with the paperwork, and they’d suggested adding themselves as co-owners for estate planning purposes.
“You sold my house without asking me,” I said, keeping my voice level.
“We’re asking you to be grateful,” Dad corrected. “We negotiated an excellent deal. After closing costs and our finder’s fee—20%, which is standard—you’ll net about $2.1 million. We’ll have a check for you by New Year’s.”
“Finder’s fee?” I repeated.
“We did all the work,” Mom explained as if speaking to a child. “Found the buyer, negotiated the terms, handled the closing. That’s worth compensation, Alexis. In the real world, people get paid for their expertise.”
The “Stagnant Asset”
Richard leaned forward, his expression dripping with condescension.
“Honestly, Alexis, you should be thanking them. That property was just sitting there while you gallivant around doing your little consulting work or whatever it is. Your parents turned a stagnant asset into liquid capital.”
“My consulting work,” I said softly.
“Whatever it is,” Natalie said with a shrug. “You’ve never really explained what you do, just that you work with international organizations and travel frequently. It all sounds very vague and, frankly, not particularly lucrative if you’re still driving a 2015 Honda.”
“The house was important to me,” I said.
“Then you should have used it,” Dad said firmly. “Real estate is an investment, not a sentimental indulgence. We maximized your return. You’re welcome.”
I took a sip of my coffee—regular grocery store coffee, not the expensive imported beans my parents favored—and set the cup down carefully.
“When did you close?” I asked.
“Yesterday,” Mom said brightly. “Christmas Eve. The buyer wanted to close before the end of the year for tax purposes. Very motivated. Paid cash.”
“Who was the buyer?”
“Some investment group,” Dad said, pulling out his phone to check. “Meridian Property Holdings LLC. They’re flipping luxury properties in Spring Valley. Probably going to gut renovate and resell for $4 million. Smart investors.”
“You sold to a property flipper,” I said quietly.
“We sold to the highest bidder,” Dad corrected. “That’s how capitalism works, Alexis. Perhaps if you’d spent less time on your mysterious consulting work and more time building actual wealth, you’d understand these concepts.”
Natalie stood, stretching like a cat.
“Anyway, crisis averted. That house was becoming an embarrassment. People kept asking why you had a $2.8 million property sitting empty. Made the whole family look strange. Can’t have that.”
I murmured, “No, we can’t.”
“Mom agreed, missing my sarcasm entirely. The Petons have a reputation to maintain. Your father sits on three corporate boards, I chair the hospital auxiliary, Natalie’s on the museum council. We can’t have people thinking we have a daughter who doesn’t understand property management.”
“Of course not,” I said.
