“What are you talking about, ‘it’s in your name’?” he asked in a whisper.
“I mean that when you couldn’t qualify for the refinance two years ago, I took the loan myself,” I explained, my voice never wavering. “You weren’t the one making those payments. I was. And when Denise kicked me out, she kicked out the only person keeping this house from a sheriff’s sale.”
I could hear his breathing get heavy. In the background, Denise’s sharp voice pierced the air. “Who is that? Why are you still on the phone with him?”
He didn’t answer her.
He just breathed out a stunned, “Oh my God.”
The next morning, I didn’t wait for a follow-up call from my parents. Instead, I called the mortgage servicer directly.
The woman on the line sounded indifferent, possessing that specific numbness common to people who hear “I’m broke” forty times a day. She confirmed my fears: the payment was officially late, the grace period was evaporating, and if the funds didn’t hit by Friday, the delinquency would be reported.
“Is there any other way to handle this?” I asked.
“You can pay the balance,” she said, bored. “Or you can apply for a hardship deferment. But as the primary borrower, the paperwork is entirely on you.”
“I won’t be filing for a hardship,” I told her. “I don’t even live at that property anymore.”
