A For Sale sign appeared outside the vacant, not to be marital house: we had not requested it.
I contacted the estate agent: ex-boyfriend’s father had negotiated asking price, negotiated terms.
We did not communicate with the ex-boyfriend, nor his father, and positively not his mother. The house sale went ahead.
Bella did not return to that empty house, too many hopes with far fewer memories. She told us this: Valentine’s Day, and the boyfriend’s father took a card and a bottle of wine; he placed them in the bedroom for Bella to discover.
Except for the heartache connected to my daughter, I was glad she was not marrying this boy. Glad she was not marrying his family.
Husband and I tidied the renovation work, and brought home paint brushes.
The house was snapped up; it had risen in value because of a market boom and renovations. Take out our down payment, there was profit for the ex-couple to share.
A solicitor dealt with legalities: marriage had not taken place, no joining of a couple, they had never lived together. Surely, the money we invested was our daughters?
We wanted our money back, we were entitled. The solicitor agreed.
Ex-boyfriend’s family would not accept. They had acquired a taste for crisp bank notes, and what they could buy. They wanted half of all proceeds, including Bella’s investment.
Official letters pigeoned back and forth.
We waited for resolution, and time crept by.