I picked up the deed, smoothed it flat, and smiled. “Mom, before I sign anything, can I show you something on my phone?” Caleb rolled his eyes. “Just sign it, Eliza. You don’t even live here.” I turned the screen toward them. It was a scanned letter from Dad’s estate attorney, Howard Briggs, dated three weeks before Dad died. Mom’s face went the color of the tablecloth. “Dad updated his will last spring,” I said quietly. “Right after the stroke. Right after he heard you two on the speakerphone in his hospital room, planning to move him into Sunny Pines so you could refinance the house.” Caleb’s wine glass froze halfway to his mouth. “That’s not—he wasn’t competent—” “He recorded the meeting with Howard, Caleb. Voice, video, two witnesses, a physician’s capacity letter. The house was deeded into a trust eleven months ago. I’m the sole trustee.” I slid a second document across the table, the trust certification, stamped and sealed. “You’ve been living here rent-free because I let you. Dad’s exact words to Howard were, ‘Give them rope. See what they do with it.'” Mom’s hand trembled. “Eliza, sweetheart, we’re family—” “You told the Hendersons I let Dad rot. You told Aunt Pat I refused to come to the funeral, when you didn’t tell me the date until the day after. I have the texts, Mom. I have everything.” I stood up and buttoned my blazer. “You have sixty days to vacate. Caleb, the Range Rover in the driveway is titled to the trust too. Howard will be in touch about the lease terms if you’d like to stay—market rate, first and last up front.” Caleb finally found his voice. “You can’t just throw your own mother out—” “I’m not throwing her out. I’m offering her a lease. The same dignity she offered me when she tried to bully me out of my inheritance over a casserole.” I picked up my keys. At the door I turned back. “Dad left you both something, by the way. It’s in envelopes on the mantel. He said you’d know what it meant.” Inside each envelope was a single piece of rope.
