Chapter 3
Randall closed the distance between them, his boots crunching on stray gravel. The confusion that had initially clouded his expression gave way to a sharp, defensive edge. He stared at the manila folder, his mind racing through every possible scenario—a tax lien, a clerical error at the county assessor's office, or perhaps a misunderstanding regarding the mortgage refinance they had discussed the previous autumn. Nothing in his worst calculations, however, prepared him for the reality resting inside his mother’s hands.
"What did you do?" Randall demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he stepped directly into her personal space. He looked past her shoulder to where Clara and Evelyn stood watching. Clara’s expression was unreadable, her knuckles white against the carved handle of her cane, while Evelyn simply shifted her briefcase from one hand to the other.
Martha did not recoil from his advance. She held her ground with the stubborn dignity of someone who had carried a secret for far too long and had finally found the strength to lay it down. With deliberate slowness, she lifted the flap of the manila folder. The stiff cardstock made a crisp, tearing sound as it parted. She pulled out a stack of heavy parchment paper covered in dense legal jargon, signatures, and embossed notary seals that caught the morning sunlight.
"You should have asked me," Martha said softly, her eyes holding his with unyielding firmness.
May you like
Randall looked down. The top document bore a bold title: Deed of Gift and Absolute Transfer of Title. Below it, written in his father’s familiar, sprawling cursive, was a date from six years prior—long before his father’s stroke, long before the hospital bills began piling up, and long before Randall had quit his job in the city to manage the family estate. But it was not his father’s name listed as the sole recipient of the property. Below the primary line, typed in crisp, modern font, was the name of a stranger, followed by an address in a neighboring state that Randall had never heard of in his life.
His knees felt weak. He grabbed the edge of the truck’s wooden ramp to steady himself, his fingers digging into the splinters. "This... this is a mistake," Randall stammered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Dad wouldn't do this. He loved this place. He built the back deck with his own hands the summer I turned ten. This house is our family."
