I put on my reading glasses. Page one. Page two. Page three. And there it was — a quitclaim deed transferring the house into Derek’s name, backdated six months, with a signature that wasn’t mine. A very bad forgery of mine. I set the papers down and smiled for the first time all morning. “Derek, honey. Do you remember Mr. Abernathy? Daddy’s lawyer?” Derek rolled his eyes. “The old guy? He must be dead by now.” “His daughter took over the practice. Lovely girl. She’s also my piano student. And three months ago, when you started asking strange questions about the deed, I put this house, the savings, and your father’s pension annuity into an irrevocable trust. I am the trustee. The beneficiary is the Cleveland Music Conservatory.” Tessa finally looked up. Derek’s face went the color of skim milk. “You — you can’t —” “I already did. In February. The same week you told your wife I’d ‘be gone in a year anyway.’ Voicemails carry, sweetheart. You butt-dialed me from the Hamptons.” I slid my phone across the table. The transcript was already open. Tessa stood up so fast her chair scraped. “You said she signed everything over.” “She’s senile, Tess, she —” “I have an appointment at four,” I said gently, “with Detective Morales at the Shaker Heights precinct. Forgery of a deed is a felony in Ohio. Five years, I’m told. But.” I closed the folder. “I’m willing to let it go. On one condition. You walk out that door right now, and you don’t come back until you can look me in the eye and call me Mom without calculating square footage.” Derek opened his mouth. Closed it. Tessa was already in the driveway, on the phone with someone named Daddy. The screen door slammed twice. I made myself a cup of Earl Grey, sat down at the piano, and played the nocturne his father proposed to me with. The house was very quiet. The house was very, very mine.
