Sign the house over to your brother, sweetheart. You’re single, you don’t need four

I picked up the deed, folded it in half, and slid it back across the table. “Diane,” I said softly, “before you keep talking, you should know Mom updated her will on March 14th. I have the notarized copy. So does her attorney. So does the county clerk.” Diane’s smile twitched. Kyle’s wife stopped chewing. I kept going. “The house was never Mom’s to leave to anyone anymore. She sold it to me in March. For one dollar. Fully recorded. I’ve been the legal owner for six months.” The silence was so loud I could hear the ice melting in Kyle’s glass. Diane laughed — that sharp, panicked laugh people use when the ground moves. “That’s not possible. She would’ve told us.” “She did tell someone,” I said. “Her lawyer. And me. She said, and I quote, ‘Diane will try something the second I’m gone. Protect yourself, baby.'” Kyle finally spoke. “Claire, come on. We’re family. You can’t just —” “I can,” I said. “And there’s more.” I pulled out my phone and played the voicemail Diane had left three nights before Mom died, the one where she’d screamed at my mother for “wasting morphine” and “dragging this out.” Mom had forwarded it to me the next morning with two words: keep this. Diane’s face went the color of the funeral lilies. Kyle turned to stare at his aunt like he’d never seen her before. “You said what to her?” he whispered. I stood up, smoothed my dress, and walked to the front door. “You have twenty minutes to get your things out of the guest room, Diane. Kyle, you’re welcome here anytime — without her. And without a deed in your pocket.” I opened the door. Cold October air rushed in, lifting the corner of the tablecloth like Mom herself was exhaling. Diane grabbed her purse with shaking hands. As she passed me, she hissed, “Your mother would be ashamed.” I looked her dead in the eye. “She’s the one who handed me the key.”