Chapter 8 - The Appraisal
By mid-February, the Virginia winter had settled into a steady, gray freeze, coating the streets of Richmond in a thin layer of frost that crunched beneath the tires of my Civic.
The foreclosure proceedings on Rivermont Drive had been officially suspended through a voluntary short-sale agreement brokered by a commercial bankruptcy attorney my father had finally been forced to hire. The house—the brick colonial with the double oak doors and the crown molding my father had hand-planed in 1994—was officially on the market.
Price: $385,000. Well below market value for the neighborhood, aimed at a quick cash buyer who could take the property off the bank's hands before the March auction block.
I drove past the house on a Saturday afternoon. A bright orange FOR SALE sign stood planted in the frost-heaved front lawn, right beside the mailbox where my mother used to hang the Christmas wreath. The curtains were drawn across the front windows, and the driveway was empty except for a faded silver Subaru station wagon belonging to my parents’ real estate agent.
I didn't stop. I kept driving, my hands steady on the steering wheel, my mind focused on my lesson plan for Monday morning’s lecture on the ratification of the Constitution.
My phone chimed in the cupholder. I glanced down at the screen. It was a text from my father:
The real estate agent had an offer this morning. Full cash price from a developer out of Midlothian. Closing is set for the end of the month. Your mother and I found a two-bedroom apartment off Huguenot Road. It’s got a small patio for her geraniums. Thought you’d want to know.
I pulled over to the curb three blocks down, put the car in park, and typed back:
That’s good news, Dad. Let me know when you need help moving the boxes.
His reply came two minutes later:
May you like
Thanks, son. We’ll take you up on that. No heavy lifting, though. Save that for the classroom.
I smiled, locked the screen, and pulled back out into traffic.
