Not yet.
By morning, I’d made a decision.
At 7:40 a.m., while Greg was driving the kids to school, I made one phone call.
“Marisol? It’s Lauren. I’m so sorry it’s this early. I need a lawyer. Today.”
Marisol Vega was my college roommate. She does real estate law in a little brick office downtown above a bakery. She listened without saying a word while I read her the whole agreement over the phone.
When I was done, she was quiet for a second.
“Okay,” she said. “First. Breathe. Second. In this state, Greg can’t put anybody on that deed without your signature. Not his mother. Not the governor. It’s your home. Both of you have to sign anything that touches it.”
I let out a breath I’d been holding since the toast.
“But,” Marisol said.
“But what?”
“But she gave you almost forty thousand dollars, and she’s got a signed piece of paper that says what she expected in return. If she wanted to make your life miserable, she could take it to court and argue she’s owed an interest in that house. She’d probably lose. It would still take a year. And it would cost you a lot more than forty thousand dollars to win.”
