The deputy asked Mark to accompany him to the station to answer questions about the forged document. Rhonda remained in my hallway holding the empty cookie plate while Sophie handed her another surprise: a printed record of every four-hundred-dollar withdrawal taken from my pension. Sophie calmly explained that the court could determine repayment, but she and Mark had until the end of the week to leave my bedroom. Rhonda didn’t argue. For the first time since Harold’s funeral, she had absolutely nothing to say.

Eventually, Mark pleaded to a lesser charge and sold his truck to repay every dollar. Rhonda moved in with her sister. Months later, Mark returned to my porch alone, holding his hat nervously in both hands. He apologized without excuses. I listened, and I didn’t slam the door—but I didn’t give him another key either. Sophie later moved into the sewing room because she wanted to, not because anyone forced her. The deed remains safely hidden inside my flour tin. I sleep peacefully in my own bedroom again, while the folding bed meant for me was donated to the church. Mark finally learned that forgiveness might reopen a door, but trust decides who gets the key.