The word just hung there. Sold. Easy in her mouth. Final. Cheerful.
“What?”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “You’ll understand when you hear the numbers.”
I tightened my grip on the phone. “What exactly do you mean, it’s sold?”
“Don’t be dramatic, Ethan. Savannah was underwater. We couldn’t let her drown. There was an offer. We took it.”
I put the phone down on the table for a second and looked out at the water. Waves kept coming in, breaking, retreating, as if nothing in the world had shifted.
Then I picked the phone back up.
“How much?”
“Three-eighty. Cash. Less fees, but very fair.”
“What circumstances?”
She exhaled impatiently. “Savannah’s debt got out of control. We had to act.”
“How much debt?”
A pause. Then: “Two hundred fourteen thousand.”
I closed my eyes.
Savannah had always lived like consequences were optional, but $214,000 was no accident. That was a collapse with furniture still inside it.
My mother kept talking. They had paid off the worst of it. Handled urgent creditors. Even set aside money for me “to get back on my feet,” as if I were the one being rescued.
When she was done, I asked one question.
“Who signed the sale documents?”
“We did what was necessary.”
“Who signed them, Mom?”