I let the phone ring through the night. At nine the next morning, my father’s car rolled up the gravel driveway where I once stood with a garbage bag, and Paige sat beside him, scrolling her phone like she was already shopping. My hands were steady when I opened the front door, but my heart was not. I had left Aunt Beth’s envelope on the kitchen table, still sealed, where I could see it.
My father did not say hello. He held out a folded paper and said, “Your aunt had no right to sign this. That land was promised to us in 1994.” Then Paige smiled and added, “Dad’s lawyer is on his way.” I picked up the envelope, slid my thumb under the flap, and read the first line. My knees nearly gave out.
