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Gerald Mercer had barely stepped into my new house when he looked around and calmly said, “This will do.” My parents stood behind me, stunned, after spending nearly twenty years saving so their pregnant daughter could have a safe home outside Columbus, Ohio. Dad had worked overtime at an auto-parts factory, while Mom cleaned offices after her pharmacy shifts, and nearly all their savings had gone toward the down payment. The four-bedroom craftsman was legally mine, with the deed solely in my name. Yet Gerald immediately announced that Aunt Dorothy would take the downstairs suite, while Aaron’s brother Scott, his wife Melissa, and their children would occupy the upstairs rooms. Then my husband, Aaron, asked me for the spare keys so his father could make copies. I looked at him and realized this wasn’t an idea—they had already made a plan.
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