The last page was not a deed. It was a single sheet in Everett’s shaky handwriting, and I read it aloud so every guest could hear. “To our son, Brandt: this house is yours on the day you marry, but only if your mother stands beside you and gives it to you herself.” The folding chairs creaked. Marguerite’s smile froze, and Gordon slowly took off his sunglasses.

Brandt stepped forward, gray in the face. “That is not what the deed said,” he stammered. “I saw the signature in June.” Then a woman in a navy suit rose from the back row, holding a thick folder, and Sloane whispered, “Brandt, who is that?” My lawyer, Ms. Ortega, had been waiting for this exact moment. She walked toward my son and asked, “Mr. Calloway, did you open a sealed envelope that was not addressed to you?”