“Brenda’s BMW was in my garage.”
“She admitted no adopted rule authorized it.”
“The next morning, she fined me because the garage remained open while her vehicle occupied it.”
“Two days later, my lock was cut and a real estate client’s vehicle was stored inside.”
“Those facts are documented.”
“That is all I have to say.”
No standing ovation.
I did not want one.
The membership voted to remove Brenda from her remaining association office under the procedures available in the governing documents.
The vote was overwhelming.
Then came the part nobody expected.
The house.
Brenda and Brad lived in the largest house on Willowbrook’s corner loop.
Five bedrooms.
Circular driveway.
Three-car garage.
Pool.
Professionally landscaped.
For years it had been the visual proof Brenda used to establish superiority.
Look at my house.
Look at my car.
Look at my standards.
What nobody knew was that the house had been financially unstable before my garage ever entered the story.
Their junior mortgage had been delinquent for months.
A private lender had already begun foreclosure proceedings.
Brad’s administrative leave reduced income.
Brenda’s business accounts became tied up in disputes and record requests.
Legal fees grew.
The lender’s posted sale date arrived five weeks after the BMW incident.
I learned about it from Derek.
“Do not do anything stupid.”
He said.
“What would be stupid?”
“Buying Brenda’s house because you’re angry.”
I stared at him.
“I hadn’t considered that.”
“You are considering it now.”
“Yes.”
“Stop.”
The property intrigued me for one reason beyond revenge.
My grandfather’s inheritance was sitting mostly untouched.
I had planned to use part of it for long-term rental property.
Brenda’s house was scheduled for a public foreclosure sale on the junior lien.
But buying at that kind of sale carried enormous risk.
Existing senior debt.
Title complications.
Occupancy.
Redemption issues depending on the process.
Derek spent forty minutes explaining why internet revenge stories are terrible investment advice.
“If you participate, you do it only after full title research.”
“Only if the numbers work.”
“Only if you understand what interest is being sold.”
“You do not get a magical free McMansion because somebody missed payments.”
Understood.
The senior lender also became involved.
By the time the sale approached, the full debt structure had been examined.
Brenda and Brad had tried refinancing.
Failed.
Their attorney negotiated.
Failed.
The junior creditor proceeded.
I did not buy the note.
I did not force the foreclosure.
I did not cause it.
But I attended the public sale with Derek.
So did several investors.
The opening bid reflected the debt and costs.
I bid because, after accounting for the senior obligation and necessary legal work, the property could make sense as a long-term asset if acquired below market.
Another investor bid.
Then another.
The price climbed.
I almost stopped.
Derek leaned toward me.
“Remember.”
“This is an investment.”
“Not therapy.”
I nodded.
Then bid once more.
The other investor stopped.
The trustee announced the result.
I stood on courthouse steps holding a bidder receipt and felt none of the satisfaction the internet version of this story would later assign to me.
I had not “taken Brenda’s house.”
A lender had exercised rights created by debts Brenda and Brad accumulated long before they entered my garage.
I had simply become the high bidder for the interest being sold.
The legal process was not complete in the simple, immediate sense people imagine.
There were title issues to finalize.
Senior financing to address.
Possession questions.
Attorneys.
Notices.
Paperwork.
Lots of paperwork.