"Heaven bend to take my hand; And lead me through the fire; Be the long awaited answer; To a long and painful fight"

“Congratulations, Brandy,” he says, shaking my hand. “You have three days to change your mind, but no one ever does.”

Several business days later, I call my lawyer. “Have the funds been dispersed?”

“No. We’re still trying to figure out that $37,000 figure.”

Oh yes. That. The mysterious quagmire. It’s not a debt and it’s too low for the buyout, but yet it appeared on the mortgage paperwork as something to settle. Despite my own uncertainty, my attorney insists I trust the process.

“Hi, Brandy. Hope all is well. Have you heard anything further from the lender, by chance?” My lawyer texts me ten days after the closing.

Despite the urge to bang my head against the wall, I calmly reply in the negative. Six days later, when looking at my unpaid mortgage statement and a grace period that’s about to expire, I text my lawyer. He advises me to make the payment and replies, “We have not disbursed.”

Bile creeps up my throat. “What’s the hold up?”

“The amount borrowed is not sufficient for the buyout.” It’s a simple statement. It’s matter-of-fact, and yet the underlining meaning is weighing me down.

An array of emotions tackle me. None of them are pleasant. Immediately, I consider options, realizing if the missing sum is added to the loan, my monthly payment will be too much.

The next morning, I vent to two friends, who have experience in the mortgage industry. One asks, “How is this your fault? You closed. The rescission period passed. This isn’t on you.”

Talking at the same time, they excitedly explain to me what it means. They’re animated, but not synchronized. I have no idea what is being said.

Uhhh.

One leaves and the other explains in more detail. Suddenly, “hope” is no longer a foreign concept. Immediately, I text my attorney and the lender. Then, send a detailed email to each of them. Straightaway, I place blame on my ex’s lawyer and the lender. Reinvigorated, I’m stoked about possibilities. This isn’t my fault and I shouldn’t be held responsible.

My attorney replies via text and tells me the circumstance isn’t the fault of my ex’s lawyer. It wasn’t an oversight.

“OK. I signed the closing paperwork and the rescission period has passed. So, the deal is enforceable. It wasn’t caused by me.”

He calls me and we argue. He defends the lender and says since the paperwork wasn’t filed, I don’t have a case. I’m still liable for the missing money. He suggests I call my ex and renegotiate the terms.

Yeah, that’s not going to happen.

The following day, I talk to the lender who explains the situation and refuses to accept responsibility, even as I point fingers. Eventually, he reluctantly admits defeat and promises to make things right. Now, we’ll close a month after the “practice” signing.

Four days later, I receive a draft of the new paperwork in the mail. I feel my head beginning to spin in an Exorcist fashion. Ire takes hold as I scrounge various drawers for a highlighter.

“Seriously? What the fuck?”

The new paperwork shows I receive nearly $20,000 at closing. The buyout is still listed at the same figure that started this mayhem, there’s no mention of the money I’m fronting, it doesn’t show the roof loan payoff, the interest rate is the same, AND!! The lender has charged me to reconfigure the loan!

“The lender is the reason I need a new loan!”  

Neither my lawyer nor the lender respond to my text. Two days later, my attorney sends me a text proposing a time to close. We arrange to meet the following day.

I hesitantly arrive at my lawyer’s suburban office armed with my highlighted paperwork.

“Brandy! What are you doing here? Didn’t the lender call you?” he asks as he greets me.

“No, that man doesn’t understand the concept of a telephone nor how to use one.” I deadpan.

“Oh. The figures aren’t balanced. He should have it reckoned by the end of the day.”

I close my eyes to keep my unfiltered mouth from running amuck.

When I open them and compose myself, my lawyer asks about the papers I’m holding. I show him. “These numbers aren’t even close to the new paperwork. You can discard this.”

“Yeah, I’m going to hold onto it. I previously put my trust in this process and we all know how that worked out. I’m keeping this for reference.”

We discuss several of my concerns and just before I leave, I announce, “If this isn’t solved at the next closing, I’m done. You can directly fight my ex for his money.”

I walk away toward my car thinking how can a lending company be this incompetent and stay in business?

Five days later, my lawyer enthusiastically informs me a closing is on the horizon and proposes the last day of the month. I agree and arrive fifteen minutes late. My attorney’s practice moved down the street the day before and he gave me the wrong address. With no signage or obvious markings, I try to make sense of the cornfield that is in front of my car.

Eventually, I show up at the building and greet my lawyer’s associate, a sweet wholesome kid. I truly pity him as he has to deal with my perturbed self. I sit down in the new conference room and review the stack of paper. My blood begins to boil.

“The interest rate is the same. The lender assured me it would be lower.”

With divine patience, he calmly says, “We’re not signing anything until you’re comfortable. Let’s call the lender.”

The man who may now be known as the bane of my existence calls after we've dialed a trail of numbers hunting for him, and twenty minutes later. He explains the situation, trying to paint himself as a hero. Even though I disagree, I understand. The closing proceeds with only a few more questions slowing the process.

Straightening the last of the signed papers, the associate congratulates me. He shakes my hand.  

“Not so fast. We don’t know if it’s going to take,” I say, not at all in jest.

“This time it will,” he promises.

And, he’s right.