Dad grew angrier. “She’s my daughter! I don’t need a lawyer’s permission to spend a weekend at her house!” Martin replied, “You need the owner’s permission,” then added, “And you don’t have it.” Mom raised her voice. “Hannah said okay! I have the message right here!” She held up her phone. Martin read it briefly. “That response followed your instruction that she recover somewhere else. It doesn’t authorize you to rent out her property, particularly when she’s now expressly told you not to enter.”
From my upstairs room, I heard everything through the open door. Carla watched me anxiously. “Hannah, do you want me to close the door?” I shook my head. “No. I need to hear this.” My back hurt beneath its surgical dressing, and sitting straight took effort. Still, listening mattered. They had plainly dismissed my health.
Below, Dad suddenly roared, “I PAID FOR HER COLLEGE! I’VE DONE MORE FOR THAT GIRL THAN ANYONE!” Martin responded, “None of that gives you ownership of her property.” Dad tried walking past him. Martin stepped back inside the hallway, repeated that entry was prohibited, and warned he’d contact the police if Dad continued advancing.
Mom caught Dad’s arm. “Robert, stop! People are arriving in an hour!” Even now, her first concern was the visitors, not my medication, surgery, or safety. Martin addressed her directly. “Those guests need to be told the accommodation is unavailable and that any payments must be returned.”
Dad gave a bitter laugh. “Returned? Do you know how much planning went into this?” Martin replied, “Six thousand dollars,” and explained, “According to the receipts your guests provided.” Dad stopped laughing. Mom faced him. “You told me everyone was just splitting food and entertainment costs.” Dad avoided her eyes. “It’s complicated.” She demanded, “You charged them to stay here?” He snapped, “I was going to use the money to cover some bills!”
I couldn’t remain silent. Carla helped me reach the top of the staircase so I could address them without descending. Martin immediately warned, “Hannah, please don’t push yourself.” Holding the railing, I looked down at my father. “Dad, did you forge my signature?” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. I signed on your behalf because I knew you’d make everything difficult.” My stomach sank. Mom looked shocked. “Robert, you told me Hannah approved the bookings!”
He had anticipated resistance and chosen to bypass me.
“You knew I was recovering from surgery,” I said. “You knew I couldn’t leave. And you still planned to fill my home with strangers?” Dad pointed upward. “You’re acting like some helpless victim! You own two properties. You could have recovered somewhere else!” I tightened my grip on the railing. “I own this house because I worked for it. And I’m recovering here because my doctor approved this setup. You don’t get to decide otherwise.”
Mom’s eyes grew wet. “Hannah, we didn’t know you were in this much pain.” I nearly laughed at her excuse. “I sent you the hospital information. I told you I needed help getting home. Neither of you answered.” She lowered her gaze. Dad remained furious. “Fine! We’ll leave! But don’t expect us to forget this humiliation!” I held his gaze. “You forged my signature and tried to rent out my house. You’re not the person being humiliated here.”
Martin instructed them to go, then contacted their guests using the details supplied by the family friend who’d shared the email and booking agreement. When the first vehicle arrived, he explained that the accommodation had been advertised without authorization. Understandably upset, the guests redirected their anger toward Dad after learning their payments hadn’t reached the property owner.
