Dennis grabbed the back of the dining chair so hard the wood creaked. “You had no right,” he said, his voice shaking. “That house was supposed to come to me.” Brielle was already pacing the kitchen with her phone pressed to her ear, whispering to someone about a lawyer and a way to undo the sale.

I stayed calm and walked to the hall closet. Inside my coat pocket sat a white envelope my attorney had given me two weeks earlier, with instructions to open it only if things turned ugly. I had hoped I would never need it. But as Dennis stepped closer, his hand reaching for my arm, the front door handle turned slowly. Someone with a key was walking in. Patricia Nolan, my attorney, stepped inside holding a thick folder, and Brielle’s face went completely pale when she saw whose signature was on the cover.