A decision.
Warning: This post includes many many parenthetical comments (because I love them) and because so much has to be said without actually saying it.
The last few weeks have been marked by the same story on repeat. She is broke. She has no money. She needs to get out of the apartment. We know. We know. We know.
And then somehow the stories got worse. Somehow the stories turned in to “if I empty out my entire retirement investment account, I still will only have half of the money I need to fulfill the signed construction contract to get myself back into the home.” (We know). Followed quickly by “the monthly draw from my investments will also stop then so I won’t be able to pay my monthly bills”. (oh crap). Did we ask if her investment “advisor” gave her an idea of what her tax hit would be? Nope. I’m pretty sure we knew the answer. Because we always know the answers.
This is bad. This has gotten considerably worse. And if she is dead broke and has any unexpected expense then she won’t be able to pay it. And then she will constantly be asking for money. (I need snow tires. I need money for my prescriptions, I can’t pay my taxe, .Etc etc etc. and, also NO).
So, Tuesday S and I talked, and we decided that in order to get what we want (her never in our house again and us not being her backup checkbook) we would take possession of the title on the townhome. As the owners we would (obviously go to every single HOA meeting and stare down the board while asking tons of questions to make them uncomfortable) fulfill the construction contract by paying the contractor directly and we would offer a reasonable allowance to finance the out-of-pocket items not covered by the contract. As the owners we will run point on the balance of the construction and actively work to get answers on any questions that arise. We will aggressively work to get it complete and her back in there. And then obviously some day when she passes, we will not need to deal with probate or a will. We will have the title and no mortgage on it we can rent it out (wanted... heavy chain smokers with cats) or (fumigate it) and sell it or finish it (fumigate it) and sell it. Whatever. We will have options in a way that have convinced us both that we are not being taken advantage of. She worked to pay off the mortgage and now its ours.
After our chat S immediately went to her apartment and went over the proposal. There were (many tears) and an acceptance.
Of course, she believes (and the market seems to support) that her townhome – with all three levels finished (which we will not do) is worth three times our offer. We are not open to this conversation. As is, the townhome is worth what we are offering and no matter how many times over the last 2 years we told you this would happen you did nothing to stop it and here you are. However, … we did agree to have an appraisal once she is back in it and when we agree on the appraisal, we can set up a payment plan to her over a 15-year period for the balance. But we will also deduct from that her property tax, INSURANCE (omg), association dues, etc.… so she really won’t be profiting. She just won’t be managing monthly or bi-annual bills.
Anyway. I drew up the Quit Claim for Deed and we just need to get to a notary with her to finalize it. I am anxious to do this as soon as possible. Last night she joined us at T’s hockey game. Her spirits are up. We feel good that the stress that has been weighing her down is gone. A new chapter.
Nope. At the game (and clearly out of my earshot because she knows better) she told S how we need to call the contractor to get a railing going down to the basement.
And then he just shut down until after the game when he told me and now,still the next morning, I want to vomit. Was this her plan all along? Did she know that at the end of the day we would bail her out? Did she miss the plan about how she isn’t profiting from this? She did not win the lottery here. She lost her house. And with it she lost the control over what happens in that house. Gone are the days of $10,000 fireplace mantles and $10,000 “custom” railings without contract. Gone are the days of spending money for sport. You spent it. All of it. Every single penny. The end.
He told me that after she brought up the railing (and he was instantly so furious he couldn’t think of what to say) she started the story telling. The stories that she tells as weapons. The stories that are filibusters that hold us hostage. The ones that we’ve heard a zillion times but that stun us like poison. (The ones from 70 years ago when she had the bedroom without good heat) (The one about how 55 years ago her parents paid for her sister to go to college and not her. OMG she was married with a baby… S in fact. So rude! And many more)
This is not a dementia thing. This is a manipulation thing. This is a look at me and how I can make you do what I want you to do thing. And it’s gross.
Does it go without saying that if she couldn’t manage 12 stairs up to watch her only granddaughter play hockey that she certainly doesn’t need to manage 12 stairs straight down into an unfinished, un-sheet rocked, abyss of a former home? Do I need to remind her that on multiple occasions (after I rushed over to get her pants on) that the firefighters needed to carry her out through the window on the deck because the corners on the stairs were too tight? Do I need to remind her how many times she has fallen (and maybe cracked ribs or maybe just bruised them but her bones are shit so who knows) while living in a one level apartment?
S says to me “should we just sheetrock over the bottom of the stairs so there is nowhere for her to go?” Dude, no. Because there is still an unspoken furniture thing (as in where is it all going to go) that needs to be dealt with… but I’m not against a solid lock on the internal door leading down there. My house. My rules. My lock. I will not go out of my way to find the money to bail you out while stimultaneously watching you willingly put your health and life in danger. I am not going to get you moved back so you can fall down the stairs, and get moved into rehab.. or worse.. again.. which would leave me stuck with all your stuff. AGAIN. And as long as I’m spinning.. I am not ever again interested in making a daily drive to Burnsville to feed a cat while you’re recovering from a fall. Also, don’t get another cat. The other two are dead and cremated and in a box (not together) that will probably be unpacked from a storage unit this winter.
So that’s happening. (I don’t even know how to end this one.)
The end.
PS – Microsoft Editor just gave me a 63% for writing this. That’s a D.