Tom patted my arm, told me to take care of myself, and wandered off to the sugar station.
I walked out of the shop before my face showed what I was really feeling.
Outside in the cold Denver air, I pulled out my phone and scrolled back through my messages.
Not one call from Brooke.
Not one text.
But somehow she was comfortable telling extended family that I was too unstable to handle a house deal I had practically engineered.
That was not just gossip.
That was groundwork.
Sitting in my car, I opened my contacts and tapped a name I had not used in months.
Daniel Hayes—the financial adviser who had helped me set up the original structure for our family LLC before my parents, under Brooke’s influence, switched to someone newer and flashier.
Daniel picked up on the second ring.
“Claire, this is a surprise,” he said. “Still keeping everyone out of trouble?”
“Working on it,” I said. “I have a question. Has anyone tried to change ownership percentages in Mitchell Holdings LLC recently?”
There was a pause, the kind where you can hear someone sit up straighter.
“I’ve seen some draft documents float by,” he said slowly. “Your mom mentioned a new adviser, asked a few hypotheticals, but I saw references to adding another family member as a managing member. Your signature line was blank.”
“It looked messy, so I told her nothing could move without you.”
My grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“Another family member,” I said. “Brooke.”
Of course.
“Did any of it go through?”
“No,” he said. “The paperwork was incomplete and, frankly, questionable.”
“But Claire, if someone is trying to backdoor their way into control of your LLC, you need to get ahead of it.”
I thanked him, hung up, and stared at the dashboard for a long moment.
I thought about the voicemail telling me I was out.
I thought about Tom parroting the word overwhelmed.
I thought about my mom suddenly wanting a new adviser right after Brooke lost her job.
This was not random.
This was a plan—with a shaky legal backbone and a lot of emotional manipulation on top.
A new notification popped up while I sat there.
From Brooke.
Finally.
“What do you think you’re doing, Claire? Pulling out of the house deal, freaking everyone out, locking down accounts. This is a mess, and you are making it worse.”
For a second, my fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I almost unleashed everything boiling in my head.
Instead, I deleted the reply draft and opened my email.
First, I wrote to the real estate agent.
Per our conversation, please consider this written confirmation that I have withdrawn from the Mitchell triplex purchase as a borrower and primary qualifier.
Any further representation that I am participating in this transaction is inaccurate and unauthorized.
Then I asked for a formal cancellation notice to be sent to my parents, copying their lawyer.
Next, I opened a new message.
This time addressed to Brooke, but written like any other risk escalation I would send at work.
Brooke, this email serves as formal notice that any attempt to alter ownership, signature authority, or financial structure related to Mitchell Holdings LLC, its associated properties, or retirement accounts without my written consent is unauthorized and may constitute fraud.
Do not sign my name.
Do not imply my approval.
Any such action will be documented and shared with legal counsel.
Claire.
No yelling.
No name calling.
Just facts and consequences.
I sent it, then turned my phone face down on the passenger seat.
By the time I drove home, my call log showed six more attempts from Mom, three from Dad.
None from Brooke.
At my apartment, I opened my laptop and started a new folder labeled:
Family Risk File.
I dragged in screenshots of texts, the lawyer’s voicemail, Daniel’s notes, the email I just sent.
Every move.
Every lie.
Every attempt to paint me as unstable.
It was all going in there.
Because if Brooke was building a story where I was the problem—where I was the weak link to be cut out so she could slide in—then I was going to build a better story.
One backed by timestamps and evidence.
And I could not help wondering, as I watched the files pile up on my screen, how many families blow up like this because one person values the truth less than the role of victim they have been rehearsing their whole life.
Three days later, an unknown number flashed on my screen in the middle of a spreadsheet.
I almost let it go to voicemail until I saw the firm name.
“This is Claire.”
“Hi, Claire. This is Jason Lou, your parents’ new financial advisor,” he said. “I just need to go over some discrepancies in the Mitchell retirement structure.”
That word made me sit up.
He explained he’d been reviewing the LLC and retirement accounts and had seen draft forms adding Brooke as a co-trustee or managing member with my name referenced as approving changes, but no actual signature from me.
“To be clear, Jason, I have not approved anything,” I said. “I haven’t signed a thing since the day I set it up.”
Jason sighed.
“I figured. Your family is under the impression you stepped away and that these changes are what you want.”
The word overwhelmed came up.
“From a compliance standpoint, I needed your confirmation,” he said.
“Treat every request as unauthorized unless you see my live signature,” I told him. “If someone claims otherwise, ask for written proof. You won’t get any.”
After we hung up, my cousin Megan called.
“Are you okay?” she blurted.
“Because the way Brooke has been talking, it sounds like you are falling apart.”
I asked what exactly Brooke was saying.
“That you pulled out of the triplex because of anxiety,” Megan said. “That you hoard control of the LLC. That you threatened to cut Mom and Dad off financially.”
“Now she’s posting about abusive power in families.”
“None of that is true,” I said.
Megan lowered her voice.
“I didn’t think so. It doesn’t match the Claire who paid for their roof. I just wanted you to know what was being said.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Screenshot if you feel like it. Otherwise, don’t feed her audience.”
We hung up.
A second later, an email thread popped into my inbox.
Subject:
Mitchell Triplex Purchase Update.
It was from our agent Susan with my parents, Brooke, and Evan the lawyer on copy.
Quoted under her reply was Brooke’s message.
“Susan, as we discussed, Claire has pulled out due to personal mental health struggles. We need to move forward without her. Please respect her limitations.”
Brooke had written it, sounding so caring it made my skin crawl.
Susan’s actual reply was crisp.
“Thank you, Brooke. For liability, I’ll need written confirmation directly from Claire and will pause the file for now.”
I started typing before the anger softened.
Hi Susan.
Attached is my written withdrawal from two days ago and the preapproval docs.
I am not exiting due to mental health struggles.
I am withdrawing because I no longer consent to my name, credit, or income being used under the current family circumstances.
Any other description of my decision is inaccurate.
Thanks for pausing the file.
Claire.
I copied Evan and Jason.
I attached everything proving I had been the driver from day one.
Susan replied quickly to the smaller group.
“Understood. I will ignore Brooke’s prior message and only act on instructions that come from you.”
A quiet email followed from Evan.
“Received. We should talk about next steps.”
That night, there was an envelope taped to my apartment door with my mom’s handwriting.
Inside, on lined paper, she’d written:
“We love you. We were emotional. Please call us so we can fix this before it goes too far.
Love,
Mom.”
For a second, my chest hurt.
I could picture her at the kitchen table while Brooke paced and cried, arranging the story.
My phone buzzed again.
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