My mother had a particular smile for things she considered obvious. She wore it when she pushed three property deeds across the dining table and explained that daughters marry out while Adrian carried the family name. The duplex my grandfather had built brick by brick, the lake house my father renovated with money I had lent him, and the townhouse I had refinanced and managed while Adrian chased businesses that never opened were all being handed to him.

My father told me not to make it emotional. Adrian joked that I would marry an Australian and forget everything anyway. I signed every page. Then I sold my car, closed my consultancy, packed eight boxes, and moved to Melbourne for a compliance job. What they had failed to read closely was the loan agreement from two years earlier, when Dad’s company was nine days from collapse. I had put in $150,000, secured against all three properties. And I had never forgotten it.