Just sign the papers, Mom. The house is mine now — Dad would’ve wanted

I asked the notary — a nervous young man named Curtis — if he’d like coffee. He said yes. Tyler rolled his eyes. I poured three cups, slid the folder toward me, and started reading. Page one: quitclaim deed transferring the 184-acre Whitfield property to Tyler Whitfield, sole owner. Page two: a ‘caregiver stipend’ of four hundred dollars a month I’d receive in exchange. Page three, the part Brittany leaned in to film, was a clause stating I’d vacate the master bedroom within thirty days. I looked up and smiled. ‘Tyler, sweetheart. Did your father ever tell you what he did before he retired?’ Tyler shrugged. ‘He sold tractors.’ ‘He sold tractors,’ I agreed, ‘for Whitfield Equipment. Which his grandfather founded. Which I have run as sole trustee since the day he was diagnosed.’ Brittany’s phone lowered an inch. I pulled my own folder out of the bread drawer — I’d had it ready for six weeks, ever since Tyler started ‘visiting’ with measuring tape. Inside was the actual deed, filed in 1994, placing the house and the surrounding acreage inside the Frank and Eleanor Whitfield Family Trust. I am the sole living trustee. Tyler is not a beneficiary until my death, and only then if he is, quote, ‘in good standing with his mother.’ I slid it across to Curtis. Curtis read it, went pale, and quietly said, ‘Ma’am, I can’t notarize the document he brought. It’s not yours to sign.’ Tyler stood up so fast his chair scraped. ‘You tricked me.’ ‘No, baby,’ I said. ‘Your father did. He knew.’ I took Brittany’s phone out of her hand, stopped the recording, and emailed the file to myself before handing it back. Then I told Tyler he had until sundown to be off my porch, and that the next time he wanted to see this kitchen, he could knock like a guest. Brittany was already in the car. Tyler stood in the doorway, smaller than I’d ever seen him. I sipped my coffee. Frank would’ve loved it.