412 Lavender Drive
At 11:43 a.m., a mortgage servicer told me I owed $523,000 on a house I’d never seen. Thirty seconds later, they said my father co-signed it—and my stomach dropped through the floor. My name is Lana Anderson.
I’m 29, an American living in Bangkok, and that Tuesday was quiet in the specific way my life there tends to be: noodles steaming in a plastic bowl, the microwave clock glowing green, my apartment so silent I could hear the upstairs neighbor sneeze. I had built that quiet deliberately—moved across an ocean to get it—and I was protective of it the way people are protective of things they built from scratch after losing everything. Then my phone buzzed with an out-of-state number.
I almost ignored it. I should have. The woman on the line sounded like she had a script taped to her desk.
“Is this Lana Anderson? This is Tracy from Silver Oak Mortgage Servicing. We’re calling about your overdue mortgage payment.”
I laughed—thin and hollow—because the only mortgage I’d ever had was the promise I made myself to never need anyone’s help again.
“What mortgage?” I asked. She didn’t hesitate. “The property at 412 Lavender Drive.
You’re listed as the primary borrower. Current outstanding balance: five hundred twenty-three thousand dollars.”
My brain tried to construct a harmless explanation—wrong number, typo, scam—but then Tracy asked me to confirm my date of birth and Social Security number. She read them back perfectly.
Both correct. She told me the loan was opened eighteen months ago. Payments stopped ten months ago.
The foreclosure process was already in motion. I rent 600 square feet in Bangkok. My mattress is on the floor.
I don’t own a couch. I own approximately nine pieces of furniture total, all of which I bought secondhand. I definitely don’t own a house.
My hands locked around the counter as I heard myself ask the question I didn’t want answered: “Who co-signed?”
Tracy’s voice stayed flat, the practiced neutrality of someone who delivers bad news for a living. “Gregory Anderson. Your father.”
I ended the call and dialed my dad so fast my thumb cramped.
The international ringtone felt like Connecticut rain—a specific, gray, familiar sound. He answered on the fourth ring with that particular irritation in his voice, like I’d interrupted something. “Lana.
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