The livestream went live. My son started his performance. “This man is my dad. When my sister and I returned from studying abroad, we didn’t have much money, so we took out a loan to buy him a luxury retirement home. And now? My mom’s sick, my nephew’s in a car accident, my business failed, I’m drowning in debt. We’re desperate. All we asked was for him to sell the house to help us out. We’d buy him another one later. But he refuses. What kind of father does that?”
Tears streamed down his face.
The comments exploded—insults pouring in faster than I could read.
“The bank just sent proof,” Vivienne announced, holding up her phone. “Mr. Harry’s account is empty. He’s been paying a mortgage for thirty years, and the house is already mortgaged to someone else.”
The room fell silent—then erupted again.
“Dad, that’s even worse!” my son barked. “Who have you been paying the mortgage for? Who did you mortgage the house to?”
“What are you hiding from us?” my daughter snapped.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”