“It means if you sign this blue folder, you agree that your biological mother is your sole legal representative for the estate,” Caroline said.
“And if we do not sign?” Sophie asked.
“Then she cannot touch a single dollar without your consent,” Caroline said.
She leaned closer to the table, her pen underlining three words in the middle of the page.
“If we fight this, we have to stand on the exact wording of the old man’s will,” Caroline said.
“Now, Mr. Vance, I have lived in that yellow house for forty years,” I said, keeping my hands folded in my lap.
“The appraisal from five years ago shows you have eighty thousand dollars in equity, Mrs. Miller,” he said, clicking his mouse.
“I only need ten thousand,” I said.
“A home equity line of credit takes about three weeks to clear the underwriters,” he said, tapping a pencil against his thumb.
“I need the cashier’s check today,” I said.
“We can do an expedited bridge loan, but the interest rate is three points higher,” he said.
“Draw up the papers,” I said.
He printed a stack of white sheets that smelled of warm ink, sliding them across the desk toward me.
“If the payments are thirty days late, the bank has the right to initiate foreclosure,” Mr. Vance said, pointing to the bold paragraph on page four.
I thought of the big oak tree in the front yard and the way the kitchen floor creaked near the sink.
“I understand,” I said.
“Can she take the house?” Ethan asked, looking at me.
“She can try to invalidate the adoption if she proves she was not of sound mind when she left you on that plane,” Caroline said. “And defending against that will require a formal response in court.”
“How much will that cost?” I asked, my hand going to my collarbone.
Caroline did not look away from me as she spoke.
“Five thousand dollars for the retainer,” she said. “And likely double that if we have to go to trial.”
I looked at the children, their young faces pale under the bright white bulbs of the library.
“We will find the money,” I said.
By two in the afternoon, I was sitting across from a young man named Mr. Vance at the county bank branch on the corner of Boulevard. He wore a crisp white shirt that looked too large for
his neck, and he kept looking at his computer screen instead of my face.
At four o’clock, I walked back into Caroline’s office alone, leaving the children in the car with the air conditioning running. The office was quiet now, the sunlight casting long orange boxes across the gray carpet.
Caroline was sitting at her desk, a fresh yellow pad in front of her.
“I have the check,” I said, sliding the blue bank draft across the blotter.
Caroline looked at the amount, then picked up her pen and signed her name at the bottom of a white retainer agreement.
“This will cover the initial filing fees and the response to the Hartford court,” she said, sliding the copy toward me.
“Will it keep her away from the children?” I asked.
“It will make her lawyers think twice before they knock on your door again,” Caroline said.
She stood up and walked me to the glass entrance, her hand resting on my shoulder for a brief second.
“Go home, Margaret,” she said. “I will file the papers first thing in the morning.”
