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 Escape

I waited until I heard the distant sound of the front door opening and the murmur of the delivery driver. I knew I had a window, a very small window while they were distracted by food and wine in the kitchen.

I slipped the phone into my pocket. I pushed the closet door open silently. The room was empty. The bed was still piled with their coats. I moved like a ghost across the carpet.

I did not go out the bedroom door; that was too risky. Instead, I went to the window that looked out over the flat roof of the sun room. I unlatched the window. It was frozen shut with ice. I pushed harder, ignoring the pain in my chest. With a crack, the ice broke and the sash slid up.

The wind howled, instantly biting at my face, but to me it felt like freedom. I climbed out onto the snowy roof, closing the window behind me. I scrambled down the trellis, my old muscles screaming in protest, dropping into the deep snow of the backyard.

I did not look back. I had the documents. I had the recording. And I had my life. I disappeared into the night, leaving them to enjoy their last meal in freedom. They thought they were celebrating a victory. They had no idea they were just fattening themselves up for the slaughter.

And as I walked back toward the main road to find a taxi, I touched the phone in my pocket and smiled. “Enjoy the pizza, Madison,” I whispered into the wind. “It is going to be the last good meal you have for a very long time.”

Buying the Lease

The sun rose over Chicago on Friday morning, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and gray that matched the dark circles under my eyes perfectly. I had not slept a wink in the motel bed, but I did not feel tired. I felt electric. The human body is a strange machine. It can be failing from cancer and crumbling from age, but give it a purpose, give it a target, and it will run on pure spite for days.

I sat at the small wobbly desk in room 104 with a list of phone numbers and a plan that was going to turn the predator into the prey. Today was not about emotions. Today was about business. And business was something I understood better than anyone in my family ever gave me credit for.

At 9:00 sharp, I walked into the branch of a private bank on Michigan Avenue. This was not the bank Madison knew about. This was not the joint account she had drained or the savings fund she had pilfered. This was where I kept my Roth IRA and a separate investment portfolio I had started back in the ’80s. It was money I had never touched, money I had let compound quietly for decades intending it to be a surprise inheritance for my grandchildren or a safety net for a catastrophic event.

Well, the catastrophe had arrived, and her name was Madison.

The account manager looked at me with concern when I asked for a cashier’s check drawn against the liquidation of the portfolio. It was a substantial sum, enough to buy a small island, but I did not flinch. I needed liquidity. I needed war chests. I told him it was for a real estate opportunity, which was not technically a lie. I was about to buy the most expensive piece of satisfaction in the world.

When I walked out of that bank with the check folded in my inner pocket, I felt the weight of it against my chest like armor. I was no longer a destitute old man. I was a capitalist with capital, and I was ready to go shopping.

My first call was to Frank Russo. Frank owns the commercial building downtown where Madison rents her fancy office suite. We go back 20 years to when I helped him pour the foundation for his first parking garage. Frank is a good man, but he is a businessman, and he has no patience for deadbeats. I knew from the papers I had found in the safe that Madison was 6 months behind on rent and facing eviction. To a landlord, a tenant who does not pay is like a termite eating away at the investment.

Frank picked up on the second ring, sounding harassed. “Gerald,” he boomed, his voice rough with smoke. “I have not heard from you since the diagnosis. How are you holding up?”

“I am surviving, Frank,” I said, watching the traffic speed by on the slushy street. “I am actually calling about business. I hear you have a problem tenant on the fourth floor. Sullivan Realty.”

Frank let out a groan that rumbled through the phone line. “Do not get me started, Gerald. I know she is your daughter, but she is bleeding me dry. 6 months no rent. She keeps promising the check is in the mail. I am filing the eviction papers on Monday. I hate to do it to family, but I have bills too.”

“Do not file on Monday, Frank,” I said, my voice calm. “Sell the lease to me.”

There was a silence on the line. “What did you say?”

“I want to buy out her lease,” I explained. “And I want to purchase the debt. Assign the arrears to me. I will pay you the full back rent today plus a premium for the remaining term of the lease. You get your money immediately. No lawyers. No court dates. I become the landlord. I become the holder of the debt.”

Frank hesitated. “Gerald, why would you do that? She is your kid. You want to bail her out?”

I watched a pigeon pecking at a frozen crust of bread on the sidewalk. “Something like that, Frank. I want to handle it personally. Just send the assignment of debt agreement to my lawyer Sarah. She will wire you the funds by noon.”

“You are a saint, Gerald,” Frank said, sounding relieved. “A saint. Most fathers would let her sink. I will have the papers over in an hour.”

I hung up. A saint. The word tasted like ash in my mouth. I was not saving her. I was buying the trap door she was standing on. Now I controlled her professional space. I could change the locks on her office just like she changed the locks on my home. I could seize her computers, her files, her client list. I owned her career.

But that was just the appetizer. The main course was Brandon.