Glen turned the flat object toward the lamplight. It was a wooden frame, dusty and cracked, holding a yellowed sheet of paper. At the top, in our grandfather’s careful handwriting, were the words “Deed of Gift.” Beneath it, a date from 1951 and a single sentence: “This farm is given to my daughter Ruth, to pass to whichever child stays.” My hands began to shake. Ruth was our mother’s mother.

“It was behind the closet wall,” Glen whispered. “Wyatt’s ball rolled through a loose panel.” Before I could answer, headlights swept across the kitchen window, and a car door slammed. Mom and Dad stood on the porch in the dark, and Mom pounded on the glass. “Marcy, open up,” she called. “We came to tell you we were wrong.” Then she saw the frame in Glen’s hands, and the color drained from her face.