Chapter 16 - The Cost of Free Labor
Melissa completed the Hanover accounting in January.
The number stunned even me.
After expenses, taxes, repairs, and reserves, my estimated one-third share of distributed income over eight years was $86,400.
Add the unreimbursed repairs.
$104,872.
That did not include the value of my management work.
Harriet called the number theft.
Leonard called it what it was.
Mine.
That difference created the first serious fracture in their marriage.
For the first time, my father hired his own attorney rather than allowing Harriet to speak for both of them.
He also hired professional property management.
Eight percent.
Exactly what he had once called ridiculous.
Two weeks later, he admitted something.
“They do less than you did.”
I smiled.
“That’s because bookkeeping costs extra.”
He almost laughed.
Almost.
My own life changed too.
Rebecca asked whether I had ever considered property management professionally.
I laughed when she first mentioned it.
“I’ve spent eight years doing it for free.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She introduced me to the owner of a regional management company.
Three interviews later, they offered me a position overseeing twenty-four residential units.
Salary.
Benefits.
Retirement plan.
Actual office hours.
And the strangest thing of all.
When the phone rang after hours, somebody paid me to answer it.
I accepted.
On my first day, Denton packed lunch for me.
Willa drew a cat wearing a tie on the paper bag.
Underneath she wrote:
MY MOM IS THE BOSS OF HOUSES.
I kept that bag in my desk drawer.
Meanwhile, my parents’ properties stabilized.
The world had continued without my unpaid sacrifice.
That mattered.
It proved something I wish I had understood years earlier.
Helping because you love someone is generous.
Being required to help so they will love you is exploitation.
In February, Leonard transferred the first portion of Hanover income owed to me.
Harriet refused to attend the signing.
Margot stopped calling.
Nolan came by occasionally.
Nothing was perfect.
But it was honest.
Then one afternoon, my office receptionist walked in.
“Karen?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a woman downstairs asking for you.”
“Who?”
“She says she’s your mother.”
I looked at the clock.
Harriet had not spoken to me in almost seven weeks.
“What does she want?”
May you like
The receptionist hesitated.
“She has a $5,000 check made out to your daughter.”
