Boston Mother Cancels Twenty Two Million Dollar Wedding Gift After Morning Betrayal
Four women sat around the table, representing the Boston Housing Foundation for Single Mothers.
The executive director, a woman in her late fifties named Clara, had a folder of architectural drawings open before her.
“The building on Mason Street is ideal for our transitional program, Beatrice,” Clara said.
“It has twelve units,” I said, sitting at the head of the table. “The roof was replaced three years ago.”
“We can have the first six families moved in by the first of March,” she said.
I looked at the deed on the table, the legal description of the property laid out in precise, dry language.
This was the building my father had bought in nineteen seventy-eight, the first real piece of our empire.
I unscrewed the cap of my fountain pen, the blue ink catching the fluorescent light.
“The transfer is absolute,” I said. “There are no reversionary clauses.”
“We understand,” Clara said.
I signed my name at the bottom of the parchment, the pen scratching softly against the heavy paper.
Avery stamped the document with his notary seal, the metallic click signaling the end of forty years of family ownership.
