The final page contained only two things: a blank signature line above my name and a small note written in Wade’s familiar slanted handwriting. I unfolded it and read slowly enough for every wedding guest to hear. “Give him the house when he has learned to be a guest in it first. A home is something you are trusted with, not something you collect.”

The deed everyone believed belonged to Dalton was only a draft. I had asked my attorney to prepare it for the day my son married because I planned to sign it in front of him. But I never had. Nobody had. Dalton stared at that empty signature line as though it had suddenly spoken directly to him. Around us, folding chairs creaked as stunned guests shifted uncomfortably. Then Sienna stepped forward, her face drained of color. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she whispered.

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