Gloria stayed silent so long I thought the call had dropped. Then she whispered, “Nora, Trevor told us you were contributing the land as your share. We wired $400,000 to the architects last month.” My stomach turned cold. I had agreed to nothing. Before I could answer, headlights swept across my living room wall, and a car door slammed outside.

I opened the door to find Hannah on the porch, mascara streaked, clutching a second thick folder against her chest. Behind her stood a man in a gray suit. “Mrs. Calloway,” he said quietly, “I am Mr. Ellison from First Piedmont Bank. We received your signed consent two weeks ago.” He held up a page. At the bottom, in blue ink, was my signature. I had never written it, and my daughter would not look at me.