Chapter 5 - The Partition Notice
Three weeks later.
The afternoon sun was hot over Charlotte as the county process server pulled into my mother's driveway.
My mother and Madison were sitting on the front porch, drinking iced tea on two folding lawn chairs they had pulled from the garage to replace the missing living room furniture.
The process server stepped up the brick stairs, pulled two blue-stamped legal folders from his bag, and handed one to my mother and one to Madison.
"Diane Holloway, Madison Holloway," the server announced clearly. "You have been served with a formal Petition for Partition by Sale filed in the Mecklenburg County Superior Court by co-owner Claire Holloway."
My mother's face went from pale to ash-gray in three seconds.
She tore open the folder, her hands shaking so violently she dropped the second page onto the porch tiles.
Printed in bold, black legal lettering across the top:
NOTICE OF PUBLIC REAL ESTATE PARTITION & EQUALITY LIEN
PETITIONER: CLAIRE HOLLOWAY (OWNER OF 33.3% UNDIVIDED INTEREST)
RESPONDENTS: DIANE HOLLOWAY, MADISON HOLLOWAY
TOTAL LIEN CLAIM FOR CAPITAL PRESERVATION: $24,900.00
Thirty minutes later, my mother called my office line.
She wasn't screaming anymore. She wasn't demanding I take down a Facebook comment. Her voice was thin, raspy, and laced with an absolute, terrifying despair.
"Claire..." she wept into the phone. "Please... please don't take my house. It's the only thing your father left me. Where am I supposed to live?"
I sat behind my executive desk at my risk management firm, looking out at the city skyline, feeling completely calm, centered, and unshakeable.
"You're not losing everything, Mom," I said softly. "When the house sells at auction for four hundred thousand dollars, your thirty-three percent share will give you roughly a hundred and twenty thousand dollars in liquid cash after my $24,900 tax and mortgage liens are satisfied."
"A hundred and twenty thousand dollars isn't enough to buy a house in Charlotte!" she sobbed.
"It's enough to buy a very nice one-bedroom condo in the suburbs," I replied. "A condo with a very small living room that doesn't require a six-thousand-dollar Italian leather sectional."
"Claire... please..." she begged. "Can't we fix this? Can't we be a family again?"
"We were never a family, Mom," I said, every word dropping like polished granite. "You were a landlord who collected rent from my guilt, and Madison was your favorite tenant. I'm just liquidating the property."
"Madison can't afford to move!" Mom cried out. "She doesn't have a job that pays enough for her own apartment!"
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"Then I suggest she start applying for a second one," I said cleanly. "Or she can use some of that money she saved on rooftop Mother's Day brunches."
I didn't wait for her answer. I hung up the phone and set it facedown on my desk.
