I've barely taken off my soaked jacket, hanging it on the hook, loosening the tie choking my throat, when there's a knock at the door.
Sighing heavily, I grip the handle, turn the knob, and lock eyes with my visitor.
Frank stands on the porch, his face heavy with fatigue. When our eyes meet, it's clear—he hates what he's about to say. And I'm sure I'm going to as well. I don’t know why I do; maybe it’sthis nagging feeling deep in my gut. One that feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of me as if I was in an alien movie.
“Mr. Needleman,” I greet him solemnly.
“Frank,” he corrects me softly. “Please.”
“Come in.” I step aside, gesturing with my arm for him to enter. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” he clears his throat. “Shall we begin?” Straight to the point. Maybe he hates being in this house as much as I do without my grandmother.
“Let’s get this over with.” I shut the door then head to the living room, Frank's footsteps sounding on the wood floor behind me.
We make our way into the living room. I pass the couch, my eyes landing on the cushion still slightly sunken where Nana used to sit. Her afghan folded neatly on the armrest, untouched.
I can't sit there. Instead, I lower down into the chair, Frank taking the one on the other side of me.
Frank pulls a manila folder from his briefcase and opens it with deliberate slowness.
“Your grandmother had a will. She loved you very much, Wy… Bradley, and she left the house to you.”
I nod. Of course she did. There was no one else. My mother—her only child—died years ago. Her husband, my grandfather, had passed away long before that. I was all that was left.
“But I have bad news,” Frank says gently, like a doctor trying to tell you a life ending diagnosis. “She owes a significant amount in back taxes. And she took out two additional mortgages on the house.”
My heart stops. What the hell is he talking about? She would never have done something like that. Not without telling me.
“What?” The word flies out, sharp and breathless.
“She’s been steadily falling into debt. After your parents’ accident…,” he pauses. “She paid for everything out of hersavings. There was no life insurance. From there, it... spiraled. The mortgages were taken out to pay for your schooling.”
I stare at Frank, numb. Confused. Heartbroken from what she did for me. She never told me and if she hadn't died, I doubt that she would have.
“But... her life insurance should’ve covered the taxes.”
Frank winces. “She couldn’t keep up with the premium. She let it lapse. Six years ago. There is no life insurance.”
The room begins to swim with the overload of information. I run a hand through my wet hair, leaning forward, placing my elbows on my knees.
“She did cover her funeral. And the plot. Everything else, though...”
“How long?” I ask in desperation, barely above a whisper. “How long before I lose the house?”
“Thirty days to cover the taxes,” Frank says. “The bank has agreed to an extension—sixty days before foreclosure proceedings begin.”
“How much?” I ask, needing to know how bad the situation really is.
He clears his throat. “The back taxes are twenty-three thousand…”
At the amount I blank out, not hearing the rest of what he says. He hands me a paper, and I can see the numbers on it he just quoted. I nod slowly, trying to absorb it. This can't be happening.
“I wish I had better news,” Frank says again, quieter.
“Thank you.” My voice cracks, raw with emotion.
We sit in silence for a moment. Me processing everything I've been told and Frank allowing me the time to do it without pushing for more.
