Episode 10

The pronouncements from my father's siblings, echoing their father's disappointment, stung more than any physical blow. "Pop would roll over in his grave if he ever saw that house," they'd say, their words laced with judgment. And perhaps they were right. But what they never acknowledged, what they never seemed to grasp, was that Pop would *definitely* roll over in his grave if he knew one of his own family members was using his name, his memory, as a weapon to inflict pain on another. I couldn't fathom why the finger was so pointedly shaken at me. I was trying. I was truly trying my best. I was attempting to mend a marriage, to salvage a home, to clean up a neglected yard, to launch a business, to bring my children back under my roof, to purge our lives of the constant police presence. My efforts, however, felt like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a teacup. They were futile, invisible, and utterly pointless.

Then, as if the universe delighted in piling on more misery, the house, the very place I'd fought so hard to save from foreclosure, was once again facing the same fate. When I’d pulled it back from the brink, a new payment plan was initiated. I’d diligently submitted the application for a loan modification and loss mitigation. But my husband’s renewed absence created a roadblock; his signature was required. Yet, because of the court's ruling that granted me ownership, the application was initially pushed through. I made the three flex trial payments, believing we were on solid ground. But when the final agreement arrived, detailing the new monthly amount, it explicitly demanded my husband’s signature. Despite explaining his unavailability, the mortgage company wouldn't budge. Their solution? A quitclaim deed. It took me months to secure it, but I did. Then, that wasn't enough. I needed a divorce decree. Divorce. The word itself felt like a betrayal of the marriage I was still desperately trying to salvage. I wasn't ready for it, wasn't seeking it.

This endless back-and-forth, this bureaucratic labyrinth, left me five months behind on my mortgage. The mortgage company, caught in their own rigid rules, refused to accept partial payments. They were unsure whether I should continue the old payment or wait for the modified agreement. The unsigned agreement meant I couldn't make any payment at all. So, despite the judge’s judgment and my hard-won quitclaim deed, the absence of a divorce decree halted everything. It stopped the mortgage payments, and inevitably, plunged my house back into foreclosure.