A dumpster sitting on the flower bed I planted myself. My sunroom already down to glass and splinters. My father in the yard holding blueprints, my mother in a lawn chair, my brother laughing with the contractor. When I asked what was happening, Sutton asked what I was doing there, at my own house. Dad told me to lower my voice and stop making a scene, and then explained they were improving it because Sutton and Priya would need the room once the baby came. My mother delivered that like good news.
The contractor showed me a contract carrying my signature, which I had never written, backed by a notarised power of attorney my father had arranged. He said he had signed for me and that it was the same thing. Fourteen thousand dollars had already gone onto my emergency card. So I drove to the construction firm’s office with my deed and my licence and the work stopped inside the hour.
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