I drove to the cottage Monday morning and parked behind Frank Delaney’s white sedan. The whole family stood on the porch, pale and silent. Mom hurried down the steps in her sun hat, crying. “Grace, please, we did not know about the deed. Frank says the sale cannot go forward without your signature.” I walked past them, carrying my green binder, and set it on the porch table in front of the agent.

Frank turned three pages and cleared his throat. “Ms. Holloway, this is more than receipts,” he said quietly. Then he pulled a yellowed envelope from the back pocket of the binder. I had never seen it before. Dad’s handwriting crossed the front: “For the family, if they ever try to sell.” Grandma Edna had slipped it in on Saturday. Frank slid out a single page, and Mom’s knees gave way.