PART 3 — Early Morning Visit
The bell rang again, more urgently this time, accompanied by loud knocking on the front door. I carefully placed the documents back into the ruby-red chest, closed the lid, and walked with silent steps to the hallway. My rumbling stomach reminded me of the medical check-up I had postponed, but adrenaline drowned out any physical pain.
I looked through the peephole. To my utter amazement, it wasn't Jons or Sabine standing there, but a tall, slender man in a sharp dark blue suit, briefcase in hand. His face was stern and businesslike. It was Mr. Houtman, the lawyer I had helped years ago when he started an office in the neighborhood. We had barely had contact since, apart from a Christmas card a year.
I opened the door.
"Thomas," the lawyer said with a serious nod. "I'm sorry to disturb you on this holiday, but this couldn't wait. I tried reaching you last night, but your phone was turned off."
"Come in, Houtman," I said in a raspy voice. I pointed to the living room, where yesterday's bowl of oliebollen still sat untouched on the table. The sweet scent still lingered, now mixed with the chill of the morning.
Houtman took a seat on the couch, declining the offer of coffee. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a thick file.
"I am here on behalf of a client," Houtman began, adjusting his glasses. "A client who insists on remaining anonymous, but who has had insight into the cadastral developments surrounding the property on Lindelaan. Thomas, do you know what was signed yesterday around midnight at notary Veenstra's office?"
I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. "Signed? At Veenstra's? No. I knew nothing about it."
"Yesterday, at exactly five minutes to twelve at night, Jons and Sabine had a final deed of transfer executed," Houtman said in a soft, almost compassionate voice. "The house has officially been completely transferred to them through a donation structure signed using an old power of attorney. A power of attorney that... apparently, bears your signature."
My breath caught. "My signature? That's impossible! I never signed a power of attorney for the transfer of that house!"
"Are you sure?" Houtman asked intently. "Because the file contains a document stating that you transferred all your rights to the property and the underlying land to Jons and Sabine in exchange for 'eternal care and housing'. A legally binding care contract."
The puzzle suddenly became gruesomely clear. That time, half a year ago, when Sabine asked me to sign a stack of 'administrative papers for municipal tax reduction' because I was drawing a pension... I had signed blindly. Because she was my daughter-in-law. Because I trusted my own flesh and blood.
"They framed me," I whispered, anger flowing like glowing lava through my veins. "They made me sign a falsified document under the guise of tax administration."
Houtman didn't look at me with pity, but his eyes gleamed with professional alertness. "If that is so, Thomas, then this involves severe forgery and fraud. But there's more. Do you know who the real mortgage lender is for that property?"
"Didn't Jons say the bank?"
"No," Houtman said triumphantly, pulling a yellow note from his bag. "The mortgage was never taken out with a bank. The property was bought at the time with money from a foundation registered in the name of your late wife Clara. And in Clara's will—which only became legally valid yesterday afternoon after the expiration of the fifteen-year term—there is a clause that Jons and Sabine completely failed to account for."
Houtman leaned forward. "If you break the 'eternal care' contract—or if they deny you care, as they did on your doorstep last night—the transfer of ownership is revoked immediately. And the entire property... including all of Jons's assets... falls entirely back into your hands."
I stared at the lawyer. Last night they had shown me the door. They had cast me out on New Year's Eve. They thought they had won. They didn't know they had single-handedly signed their own downfall.
