And apparently, I was the last person at the table entitled to know what happened next.
I fetched the deed from my desk because I thought paper could end an argument that family loyalty apparently could not.
Lauren barely looked at it.
“Mom moves in tonight.”
That was when I tore it.
A foolish gesture. An angry one.
I expected Michael to tell us both to calm down.
Instead, he told me the house was no longer mine.
Now the realtor approached the table.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” she said.
“Then explain my signature.”
She looked down at the page.
Michael pushed his chair back.
“Dad, let me talk to you privately.”
I kept my eyes on the document. Whoever had signed it had copied the slant, the uneven capital letter, even the trailing line.
But they had missed something.
Something Michael knew.
I reached for the folder.
Lauren’s hand settled over it first.
For the first time all evening, her voice shook.
“Michael. Tell him what else he signed.”
What else could possibly be in that folder—and why couldn’t my son look at me?
Michael’s chair scraped against the floor again, but this time he did not stand. His hands remained flat beside his plate, fingers spread as if the table were the only thing keeping him upright.
“Lauren,” he said quietly.
She kept her hand on the folder.
The realtor looked from one of them to the other. Her name badge read NORA BELL. She had the strained expression of someone who had walked into a family argument and suddenly realized it might be a crime scene.
“I was told the transfer had been authorized,” Nora said. “I was given identification, a notarized deed, and a power of attorney.”
My mouth went dry.
“A power of attorney?”
Lauren pulled the folder toward herself.
