Chapter 3 - The Invoice of Blood and Sweat
By lunchtime, my voicemail was at full capacity. There were three frantic messages from Mom, two furious rants from Garrett, and, surprisingly, a stiff, passive-aggressive text from Garrett’s fiancée, Presley: *“Craig, I don’t know what kind of tantrum you’re throwing, but your mother is seventy-one years old and sitting in eighty-degree heat because the AC won’t kick on. You need to act like a grown man and fix this.”*
I took a screenshot of the text, sent it to Sloan, and went down to the deli across the street to grab a pastrami sandwich.
Sloan called me back before I had even paid the cashier.
“Presley actually had the nerve to text you?” Sloan’s voice was laced with equal parts disbelief and amusement. “The girl who spent the entirety of Sunday dinner picking at her arugula and bragging about her three-thousand-dollar wedding dress deposit?”
“Word for word,” I said, walking back out into the bright afternoon sun. “They’re rallying the troops. Mom probably thinks I’ll cave before five o’clock like I usually do whenever she pulls the guilt card.”
“Well, you'd better brace yourself,” Sloan warned softly. “Garrett just drove past our house. Our Ring camera caught his truck idling at the end of the driveway for two minutes before he sped off toward downtown.”
I stopped on the sidewalk. “He’s coming to my office.”
“He is. Craig, don’t let him bait you. He wants you to lose your temper so he can paint you as the villain to the whole extended family.”
“I won’t,” I promised. “I’ll see you at home tonight, honey.”
I took the elevator back up to the twelfth floor. Exactly twenty minutes later, the receptionist paged my desk. Her voice was hesitant, lower than usual. “Craig? There’s a gentleman down here in the lobby. He says he’s your brother, and he... well, he’s demanding to see you immediately. He’s being quite loud.”
“Send him to Conference Room B,” I said calmly. “I’ll be right there.”
I picked up a manila folder from my desk drawer—one I had compiled over the weekend—and walked down the carpeted hallway. Through the glass partition of Conference Room B, I could see Garrett pacing like a caged dog. He was wearing his gym clothes, clutching a pair of mirrored sunglasses, his face red with exertion and rage.
I opened the door and stepped inside, shutting it firmly behind me.
“Are you out of your damn mind, Craig?” Garrett exploded before I could even take a seat. He stepped into my personal space, pointing a finger directly at my chest. “Mom is having a panic attack! She’s sitting in a dark house sweating through her clothes, crying her eyes out because her own son decided to play financial terrorist!”
“Take a seat, Garrett,” I said quietly.
“Don’t tell me to sit down! You log into your damn bank account right now and pay those bills! You make six figures, you drive an Audi, and you live in a gated community! What kind of sick, vindictive bastard cuts off his own mother’s electricity because he didn’t get a cut of a house he doesn’t even need?”
I didn't flinch. I walked to the head of the conference table, pulled out an ergonomic chair, and sat down. I opened the manila folder and laid three printed sheets of paper flat on the mahogany surface.
“Sit down, Garrett,” I repeated, looking directly into his bloodshot eyes. “Or you can leave right now, and Mom can spend another night sleeping with the windows open.”
Garrett scoffed, running a thick hand through his messy hair, but the sheer coldness in my posture gave him pause. He dragged out a chair opposite me and dropped into it, leaning forward aggressively. “You’ve got two minutes to explain yourself before I tell the entire family what a monster you are.”
“This isn’t about being a monster. It’s about simple math,” I said, sliding the first sheet toward him. “Look at it.”
Garrett cast his eyes down, his brow furrowing. “What is this?”
“That is an itemized ledger from June 2017 to last month,” I explained. “Item one: Mom’s monthly power bill. Average cost: two hundred and forty dollars. Item two: water and sewage. Average cost: eighty-five dollars. Item three: high-speed fiber internet, which she only got because you insisted on streaming your video games when you lived with her for three years rent-free. One hundred and twenty dollars. Item four: comprehensive auto insurance on her sedan. Two hundred and ten dollars.”
I slid the second sheet over.
“That’s the structural maintenance,” I continued. “In 2019, the HVAC unit blew out. Who paid eight thousand dollars to replace it? I did. In 2021, when the roof had that massive leak over the master bedroom, who climbed up there with a contractor and wrote a six-thousand-dollar check? I did. When the back deck rotted out, who spent four weekends rebuilding it so Mom wouldn’t fall through the planks? Me.”
“You’re her son!” Garrett spat, though his voice lacked some of its initial thunder. “Families help each other!”
“Families do,” I agreed. “And third sheet, Garrett. That’s your name at the top.”
He looked down at the third paper. His eyes widened slightly.
“That is the deed transfer and the current market appraisal of the property at 414 Elm Street,” I said. “Value: four hundred and ten thousand dollars. Free and clear. Mom signed the paperwork making you the sole beneficiary upon her passing, and she explicitly gave you power of attorney over the property effective immediately so you can move in after your wedding.”
I leaned in, resting my forearms on the table.
“You own that house, Garrett. Spiritually, practically, and legally within the next two years. If you want the lights on in your future house, pay the two hundred and forty dollars. If you want water coming out of the taps, write the check. Because as of Sunday night, Craig Miller is out of the charity business. You wanted the house? You bought the maintenance that comes with it.”
Garrett stared at the numbers, his jaw working silently. He wasn't stupid; he was just spoiled. He had spent his entire thirty-one years floating on the assumption that safety nets were standard issue and that Craig would always be there to pick up the tab while he pursued his ‘passions.’
“I don’t have that kind of cash lying around right now,” Garrett muttered, his voice dropping into a sullen mumble. “Presley and I have wedding vendors to pay. The caterer needs ten grand by Friday.”
“Then I suggest you tell your caterer to hold off,” I said, closing the folder and standing up. “Or you can explain to your mother why you’d rather have an artisanal charcuterie board at your reception than air conditioning in her living room.”
I walked toward the door, paused, and looked back over my shoulder.
May you like
“And Garrett? If you ever show up at my place of employment again, I won’t call Mom. I’ll call building security, and then I’ll call the police. Have a great day.”
***
