The wineglass struck the tile beside Gwen’s shoes and shattered.
Nobody moved.
A thin stream of white wine ran between the broken pieces while my sister stared at the county recorder’s seal on the document in front of me.
Her face had lost every trace of the glowing smile she had worn on Facebook Live.
“That’s fake,” she said.
Daniel Hale, my attorney, calmly removed another copy from the certified envelope.
“It was recorded by the Washtenaw County Register of Deeds on the morning of your closing,” he replied.
“You signed it in front of a notary.”
Our mother, Linda, took the copy Daniel offered her.
Her fingers trembled as she read the title.
Mortgage and Promissory Note.
Cousin Melissa leaned over her shoulder and whispered the words aloud.
The whisper traveled farther through the silent room than Gwen’s music had.
Gwen lunged toward the paper.
I closed my black folder before she could reach inside it.
“Give me that,” she demanded.
Daniel stepped between us.
“Do not touch my client or her documents.”
Gwen looked around the room, searching for the sympathy that had surrounded her only minutes earlier.
The relatives who had applauded her speech now avoided her eyes.
Her coworkers stood frozen near the staircase, drinks lowered.
Even the caterer had stopped rearranging trays.
“This is insane,” Gwen said.
“Valerie gave me that money.
She called it family help.
Now she’s trying to humiliate me because I didn’t invite her to one party.”
“One party?” Aunt Denise asked.
“You told us Valerie had to work.”
“She was supposed to work.”
“No,” I said.
“You hoped I wouldn’t see the livestream.”
Gwen’s fiancé, Marcus, had been standing near the fireplace.
He was a broad-shouldered man with a quiet manner, and until that moment, he had looked more confused than angry.
He walked toward the island.
“What exactly did you sign?” he asked Gwen.
She did not answer him.
Daniel opened his leather case and removed a second document.
“This is the repayment schedule attached to the note.
The first payment was due thirty days ago.
No payment was received.”
Marcus turned to Gwen.
“You told me the money from your sister was a gift.”
“It was supposed to be.”
“The signed agreement says otherwise,” Daniel replied.
Gwen’s mouth tightened.
“She forced me to sign it.
The lender was rushing us.
I didn’t understand what it meant.”
Daniel lifted one page.
“Your initials appear beside every paragraph.
There is also an email from you confirming that I explained the agreement to you twice.”
I remembered the email clearly.
Gwen had written that she understood my money would be secured by the house and that she considered the arrangement fair.
She had even thanked Daniel for making the language simple.
At the time, I believed she meant it.
