I walked to the bedroom, but I didn’t reach for glasses. I reached for the manila folder tucked inside my husband’s old Bible — the one Daniel had never opened, not even at the wake. Inside was the original deed. The one with MY name on it. Single owner. Paid in full. 1987. Because Daniel’s father, God rest him, never trusted our son with a dollar after the credit card incident in college. “Mom, we don’t have all night,” Vanessa called out, tapping her heel like a metronome of greed. I came back, folder pressed to my chest, and sat down across from them. “Funny thing about the paperwork you brought,” I said, sliding mine over the top of his. “It’s a forgery, Daniel. A pretty one. But the county recorder called me on Tuesday — said someone matching your description tried to file a quitclaim using a notary stamp from 2019. That notary died in 2020.” The color drained from his face like someone pulled a plug. Vanessa’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. “I didn’t want to believe it,” I continued, voice steady as a hymn. “So I asked my attorney to wait. To see if my own son would really sit in his father’s chair and lie to my face.” I stood up. Sixty-eight years old, five-foot-two, and somehow taller than both of them. “The locks were changed this morning. Your things are in the garage. The detective handling the fraud case would like a word — he’s parked across the street, by the magnolia your father planted.” Daniel reached for me. “Mom, wait, we can talk—” I picked up my chamomile tea. Still warm. “You had thirty-four years to talk, baby. You chose tonight to threaten me instead.” I walked them to the door I’d painted myself, the spring he turned six, and I closed it gently. Then I locked it. From the window, I watched the red and blue lights bloom across the magnolia petals like a garden finally in season.
