Brenda leaned farther out of the window and called, cheerfully, “Is that Gordon’s son? I’m Brenda, honey. Where should I park?” I realized at once that she knew nothing. Mom set down her coffee, walked slowly down the steps, and stopped beside the truck. “Brenda, I’m Linda, and I own half of this house,” she said gently. “Did Gordon tell you that?” Brenda’s smile slipped, and the engine ticked in the silence.

Dad appeared on the porch, pale, as I pulled a copy of the deed from my folder. Behind the truck, a gray car turned into the driveway, and two big men climbed out carrying boxes. “Mom?” the older one called. “Why is everybody staring?” Brenda read the first line of the deed, and her face hardened. She turned toward Gordon and said, very quietly, “You told me this was your house.”