The Recorded Gift Deed Brought My Niece To A Lawyer's Table

The county copy cost less than lunch.

For ten dollars and other good consideration, Kao had given Naly the warehouse. The deed had been recorded the day before our call. His signature looked as firm as the one on my loan.

I stared at the page in attorney Mara Salcedo's office.

"Does this erase me?" I asked.

"No. Your mortgage was recorded four years earlier. Giving away the building doesn't wipe that lien off it."

"Can I put my name on the building now?"

"Not just because he owes you money. We can demand payment and, if needed, ask the court to foreclose. Naly has to be included because she holds title now."

I did not want Naly's name on a lawsuit.

I also did not want my life on the curb by Friday.

Mara asked for the lease, the wires, my account records, and every message Kao had sent. She checked the business papers too. Seng's share of our company had passed to me through the trust we had made during his treatment. My lawyer had already confirmed that transfer.

I had been too tired to feel anything when I signed those estate papers. Now they held the company steady while the rest of the family tried to pull it apart.

"Keep paying rent," Mara said. "Keep proof. Don't give him a real breach while we fight an invented one."

She sent a demand with a copy of the mortgage. Kao had ten days to answer our request for payment or propose terms I would accept. She also told him to stop demanding possession outside the lease.

Friday came. My racks stayed where they were.

Naly arrived alone that afternoon. She waited while I finished weighing a crate.

"I read the papers," she said. "Can we talk with your lawyer?"

We met on Monday. Mara explained that she represented me and that Naly should get her own advice. Naly agreed to listen first, then find someone.

She placed a thin folder on the table.

Inside was a loan worksheet describing the warehouse as free of debt. Kao had prepared it. Naly had signed beneath the figures.

"I knew there were mushrooms inside," she said. "I thought you were finishing orders before you left."

"Did you ask me?" I said.

"No."

"Did you ask who paid for the rooms?"

She shook her head.

Mara let the silence last.

At last Naly said, "I wanted the gift to be real."

That answer hurt more than an excuse. I remembered wanting a building so badly that I had walked through its dust and seen cool white shelves.

"Your wish didn't make the place empty," I said.

"I know that now."

She promised to correct the worksheet with the lending office. Mara told her to do it through her own adviser and keep a copy.

That night, Kao called three relatives before he called me.

My cousin asked whether I could wait until everyone's grief had eased. An aunt said a widow should be careful with quarrels. I asked each of them the same question.

"Did Kao tell you how much he owes?"

Neither knew.

I did not send the papers to the whole family. I wrote one short answer for anyone who called: there was an unpaid loan, a lease, and lawyers handling both.

One evening, my nephew Bee stopped by with groceries. He was Kao's younger son and had helped Seng make deliveries during treatment.

"Dad says you might take Naly's future," he said.

I put the milk in the refrigerator.

"Did he tell you he already spent my inheritance?"

Bee watched me flatten the grocery bag.

"No."

"You can love your father without repeating something you haven't checked."

He helped carry our empty harvest crates inside. Before leaving, he asked if I still needed a Saturday driver. I told him I would think about it.

Mara's deadline passed without payment.

She filed the mortgage foreclosure case in Pima County Superior Court and recorded notice of the lawsuit against the property. She also raised the lease dispute. Copies went to Kao and Naly through the required service process.

I paid the first legal bill from money meant for a replacement delivery van.

It made me sick. I signed the check anyway.

Two days later, Mara called while I was cleaning a scale.

"Kao has hired counsel," she said. "They're claiming repayment."

"There wasn't any."

"They sent a ledger with a hundred-sixty-eight-thousand-dollar credit. They say it came from your harvest sales."

I looked at the colored strings above my desk.

"Send me the date," I said.