I opened the folder slowly, the way you open a door you already know is rigged. Quitclaim deed. Power of attorney. Trevor’s signature in three places, a notary stamp from a guy I recognized — Dad’s old golf buddy, the one who’d been disbarred for two years in 2019. I almost laughed. Trevor leaned in. “Just sign it, Hannah. Mom’s tired. Stop making this a scene.” I looked up at him and finally spoke, for the first time that morning. “Trevor. Do you remember last March, when you flew in for exactly six hours for Dad’s funeral?” He blinked. “Mom asked you to stay one extra night to help sort his papers. You said you had a flight.” I reached into my tote bag — the canvas one with the frayed strap he’d mocked at Christmas — and pulled out a second folder. Thicker. Bound. “While you were gone, Mom and I went to a real estate attorney. Dad had already put the house in an irrevocable family trust in 2021. Mom isn’t the owner. I’m not the owner. The trust is. And the sole trustee, after Dad’s passing, is me.” The color left his face in stages, like a screen dimming. “You can’t —” “I already did. Three months ago. The deed you’re holding? It’s a photocopy of a document that hasn’t been legally valid since Dad signed the trust paperwork at Mercy Hospital, two days before he died. The notary you used lost his license in 2019. I have the bar association letter in my car.” Mom set down her ginger tea. Her hand wasn’t shaking anymore. She looked at Trevor — really looked at him — the way you look at a stranger who’s been wearing your son’s face. “You came to my chemo,” she said softly, “to take my house.” Trevor opened his mouth. Nothing came out. The nurse called Mom’s name. I stood, helped her up, and walked her toward the infusion room. At the doorway I turned back. Trevor was still standing there, holding his worthless folder, in his four-thousand-dollar suit, in a room full of people who had heard every word. “Your Uber’s outside,” I said. “I ordered it on your account. Economy.”
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