Eleven years earlier, Nana discovered my mother had forged her signature on two loans against the farmhouse. The money had funded Delaney’s cars, vacations, and failed boutique. Nana quietly repaid everything, then created a trust naming me sole owner. Mom could remain there for life—but only if she never attempted to sell, borrow against, or give away the property.

The envelopes contained evidence of the forged loans and letters explaining Nana’s decision. She’d never reported Mom because she hoped she’d change. Beneath them was another surprise: a savings passbook containing sixty thousand dollars Nana had earned selling quilts and saved for my education and future. That evening, Gordon drove me home. Mom was wrapping china when he placed her envelope on the kitchen table. She opened it, and the color disappeared from her face. “The listing is void,” Gordon told her. “The house was never yours to sell.”