Sign the house over to me tonight, Mom, or you can find somewhere else

I set my wine glass down softly. “Travis,” I said, “before Mom signs anything, I think Bianca deserves to see the actual deed.” He laughed. “Stay in your lane, Hannah. You haven’t lived here in a decade.” I slid my own folder across the table. Bianca, ever the professional, opened it before he could stop her. Her face went the color of the tablecloth. “Travis,” she whispered, “this house isn’t in your mother’s name.” Dad, before he passed, had quietly moved the property into an irrevocable family trust. Mom had a lifetime right to live there. The trustee, the only person who could authorize a transfer or sale, was me. Travis’s smirk cracked. “That’s not possible. Mom, tell her that’s not possible.” Mom finally looked up. “Your father knew, sweetheart. He knew what you’d do.” I kept my voice level. “The loans you took from Mom? I have every bank record. Forty-seven thousand dollars, Travis. Dad’s attorney has already filed to recover them from your share of the estate. Which, as of this morning, is zero.” Bianca stood up so fast her chair scraped. “You told me we were inheriting this house. You told me we were closing on the Aspen place in March.” “Babe, wait—” “You don’t even own the car you drove here in, do you?” She grabbed her coat. The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the ornaments. Travis turned on me, red-faced. “You ambushed me.” “No,” I said. “I protected our mother. Something you stopped doing the day Dad died.” I slid one more page toward him: a notice of eviction from the pool house he’d been squatting in rent-free for two years. “You have thirty days. Merry Christmas.” Mom reached up and squeezed my hand, and for the first time in eight years, I felt her breathe out. Travis grabbed his coat in silence. The bourbon glass stayed on the table, still full. Dad’s glass. Where it belonged.