By ten that morning, Tiffany’s car screeched into the driveway. I sat in my blue armchair at the condo while my phone lit up with her name eleven times. Then Adrian called, and I finally answered. “Mom, what is this notice?” he whispered. “It says the house is under management and we owe rent.” I told him to read page two aloud. His voice cracked halfway down the page.

“The deed,” he said. “Mom, it says Dad left the house to you alone. Tiffany’s name was never on anything.” Behind him, Tiffany screamed that I could not do this, and then another voice cut through the line, calm and cold. It was her mother. “Put Dorothy on speaker,” she said. “I know what she did three years ago, and I have the proof right here.”