Chapter 4: Copies of Everything
Carol arrived within the hour.
She sat across from me at the kitchen table, the folder open between us.
She didn't say anything for a long time.
She read every page twice.
Then she looked up.
"She actually labeled the transfers."
"Every one."
"That's either very stupid or very confident." Carol turned a page.
"Who prepared the transfer document?
This isn't something she typed herself."
"I don't know."
"Someone helped her.
This has legal formatting.
The property description is pulled directly from the county record." She tapped the page.
"Someone with access did this."
I hadn't thought about that.
I had been so focused on my mother that I hadn't asked who had helped her.
"Ray?" I said.
"Possibly.
Or someone Ray knows." Carol closed the folder.
"Okay.
First thing tomorrow, you call a property attorney.
Not a general lawyer — specifically property.
You need to know if anything has already been filed against this title."
"She said nothing was filed yet."
"She also forged your signature and called it a family arrangement, so I wouldn't take her word for much right now."
I almost laughed.
I didn't.
"What do I do tonight?"
"Tonight you write down everything you remember.
Every transfer you sent her.
Every conversation where she mentioned the house, your father's will, Ray.
Every date you can recall.
Do it now while it's fresh." She reached across and put her hand over mine.
"And check on your girls."
I went upstairs after Carol left.
My younger daughter was already asleep, still in her birthday dress, one shoe on and one shoe off.
My older daughter was sitting on the edge of the bed beside her, not reading, not on her phone.
Just sitting.
"Is Grandma gone?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Is she coming back?"
I sat down next to her.
"Not for a while."
She nodded slowly.
Then: "Mom, she used to make me do the dishes every time she visited.
Even when you weren't home.
She said it was my job because I was the oldest."
I looked at her.
"How long has that been happening?"
"Since I was like eight."
She said it the way children say things that have been normal for so long they don't realize they shouldn't be.
Flat.
Factual.
Like reporting the weather.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"She said you'd be upset and it would cause problems.
She said you had enough to worry about." She paused.
"She said if I told you, you might have to choose between us, and that wouldn't be fair to you."
My mother had been managing my daughter's silence for three years.
I put my arm around her.
She leaned into me.
"You should have told me," I said.
"I would always choose you.
Every time.
Without thinking."
She didn't cry.
She just exhaled.
Long and slow, like she'd been holding it.
"I know," she said.
"I think I knew.
I just didn't want to make things hard."
We sat there until she fell asleep against my shoulder.
I didn't move her.
I stayed until her breathing went deep and even, and the room was quiet except for the sound of both my daughters sleeping.
Then I went back downstairs, opened my laptop, and started writing everything down.
I had been writing for twenty minutes when my phone lit up.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*You should know your brother already has a buyer for the property.
Closing was scheduled for next month.
I'm sorry.
I thought you knew.*
I stared at the screen.
A buyer.
A closing date.
Next month.
May you like
My mother hadn't been planning this.
It was already in motion.
