Sign the house over to your brother, or don’t bother showing up to Mom’s

“You always were dramatic, Hannah,” Vanessa sighed, sliding a pen toward me. “Dylan has a family. You have a cat. Be reasonable.” Dylan smirked from the doorway, arms folded like he’d already won. I let them have their thirty seconds. Then I reached under the table and peeled off the envelope I’d taped there the morning Mom went into hospice. Inside was a notarized letter, dated eight months ago, in Mom’s shaky handwriting — and a flash drive. “Mom asked me to read this out loud the day someone tried to take the lake house,” I said. “She said you’d both show up. She was right down to the chairs you’d pick.” Vanessa’s smile cracked. I read it slow. Mom had transferred the deed into an irrevocable trust last spring, with me as sole trustee, after Dylan forged her signature on a second mortgage attempt in February. The flash drive held the bank’s recorded call, Dylan’s voice clear as glass, pretending to be her. “She knew,” I said. “She knew every time you skipped a chemo appointment. Every time Dylan asked about the will instead of asking about her. She wrote down the dates.” Vanessa lunged for the letter. I lifted it out of reach. “The trust pays for the upkeep. Not a cent goes to either of you. Mom’s instructions.” Dylan exploded — threats, lawyers, the usual. I slid him a business card. “That’s the fraud investigator already assigned to your file. She’d love your statement.” Vanessa started crying the performative kind of cry I’d watched her use on teachers since middle school. I stood up, folded the cardigan tighter, and walked them both to the door. “Mom said one more thing,” I added, hand on the knob. “Tell them I forgive them. Then change the locks.” I did both before sunrise. The lake house is quiet now. Sometimes I sit on the dock at dawn and swear I can hear her laughing.