Then a major obstacle presented itself. The attorney who originally processed the paperwork, Rebecca, had recently been admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery, and a portion of her physical files had not been scanned into the digital system yet.
Among those paper records was the written consent form executed by my father. Although I possessed a personal copy, if Brenda claimed that Walter never agreed to the arrangement or signed under duress, the court process could be stalled for months.
“There is an easy way to eliminate that defense entirely,” Samuel suggested. “Have your father appear before a notary public to officially affirm that he signed the document voluntarily.”
My chest tightened at the thought of approaching my father. He was the same man who had pushed his own granddaughter’s stroller out into the hallway without uttering a single word of protest.
Meanwhile, my mother was already launching counterattacks. She contacted Gemma’s daycare to question her attendance record, attempted to pull her medical history, and my sister threatened to post messages online accusing me of casting elderly parents into the street.
When I visited the building again to present the public land registry document to my mother, she lunged forward and attempted to grab the phone from my hands, causing it to fall and shatter its screen on the concrete floor.
“This home belongs to me!” she screamed hysterically. “You are nothing but an ungrateful daughter!”
Fortunately, a neighbor observed the entire altercation.
Samuel gave me clear instructions: “Avoid all further verbal arguments with her, document every interaction, save all messages, and go talk directly to your father.”
On Saturday morning, I walked into the small auto repair shop where my father spent his early hours fixing old vehicles. I was carrying a manila folder containing two specific items: a copy of his signed consent form and five years worth of medical receipts for his health treatments.
