Their address.
My mother’s house.
The house my parents had lived in for nearly thirty years.
The house where I had spent half my childhood.
The house where my mother had hosted every birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s Eve.
The house she believed belonged entirely to her.
My mother stared at the page.
“That can’t be right.”
My father swallowed.
“There’s more.”
He reached into the envelope.
This time he pulled out a thick stack of documents.
A property agreement.
Payment records.
Bank statements.
Tax documents.
And finally, a letter from an attorney.
My mother’s face became pale.
“No.”
My father looked at her.
“Diane, what did Julia do?”
My mother didn’t answer.
Because suddenly, she remembered something.
Something she hadn’t thought about in years.
Something she had convinced herself didn’t matter.
Seven years earlier, when the roof needed replacing, they didn’t have enough money.
