Dad told Martin there would be no walkthrough.

His voice was steady enough that I almost didn't recognize it.

“Any further communication goes through our lawyer.”

Martin sounded confused.

“Your wife represented that everything was agreed.”

“It wasn't.”

Tessa gave Dad her office number.

After the call, she asked permission to contact Martin herself and request the materials Celia had sent him.

I agreed.

For the first time, somebody needed my consent before making a decision about my home.

On the drive back, Dad asked whether I wanted lunch.

The question should have been ordinary.

Instead, I started calculating.

I had my rent money back, but I wasn't used to spending without leaving room for punishment.

“I can eat at home.”

He glanced at me, then returned his eyes to the road.

“You can. Or we can stop somewhere.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Naomi.”

I looked over.

“What do you want?”

It took me half a mile to answer.

“A sandwich.”

We stopped at a small place near my office.

Dad ordered soup.

I ordered a sandwich and apologized when I added a drink.

He said nothing about the apology.

He just paid, carried the tray, and sat across from me.

Halfway through lunch, Celia called my phone.

I froze with the sandwich in my hand.

Dad noticed.

“You can let it ring.”

I did.

Then came a message.

I am coming home. We need to correct the story you told.

I showed him.

He called Tessa before we left.

By the time we reached the house, we had a plan.

Aunt June would stay.

Celia could collect what she needed. Conversations about the property and money would happen through the lawyer.

I wouldn't be alone with her.

It sounded simple.

My body didn't believe it.

I kept checking the front windows.

Dad went upstairs and returned carrying my mother's quilt.

He had taken it out of the plastic bag.

“Where would you like this?”

I touched the edge.

“On my bed.”

He nodded.

“Then that’s where it goes.”

Celia arrived just after four.

She was wearing the cream coat Dad had bought her for Christmas.

She saw Aunt June and stopped.

“Still here?”

June folded her hands.

“Yes.”

Celia put her bag on the console.

Then she turned to me with tears already shining in her eyes.

“Naomi, I wish you had told me you felt this way.”

I stared at her.

“I did.”

“You complained about being an adult.”

“I told you I couldn't afford it.”

“You needed motivation.”

Dad stepped forward.

“You told her I wanted this.”

“I was trying to support your parenting.”

“She was twenty-two when this started.”

“And still living at home.”

“In the house her mother left her.”

Celia’s tears disappeared.

“Fine. Make me the villain.”

Nobody answered.

That seemed to anger her more.

She looked at me.

“I cooked for you. I kept this house running. I gave up my own life to join this family.”

I remembered eating crackers in my room while she and Dad went out for dinner.

I remembered her telling visitors I preferred to stay upstairs.

“You charged me to use the washer,” I said.

My voice shook, but the words stayed clear.

“You took money for food I wasn't allowed to eat.”

She stepped toward me.

Dad moved beside me.

Celia stopped.

“I have expenses.”

“You have my money.”

The room went quiet.

I had never said it like that before.

My money.

Not a contribution.

Not a lesson.

Not something I owed because I took up space.

Celia looked at Dad.

“She’s been rehearsing.”

“No,” he said. “She’s finally speaking.”

Her mouth twisted.

Then she reached into her bag and took out a folder.

“You want paperwork? Here.”

She placed it on the table.

“This proves she agreed.”

Dad didn't touch it.

“We’ll give it to Tessa.”

“You’re going to humiliate me over family matters?”

“You involved a buyer.”

“He was evaluating the property.”

“You told him Naomi was leaving.”

“She signed.”

I felt the old panic rise.

The signature.

The thing she could hold up and use to make my own memory seem unreliable.

Aunt June looked at me.

“What were you told?”

“That it was a receipt.”

Celia scoffed.

“She’s twenty-five. She can read.”

I swallowed.

“Yes. I can.”

Everyone looked at me.

“And you stood over me and told me Dad needed it signed immediately.”

Celia opened her mouth.

I kept going.

“You said I was selfish when I asked questions. You said his chest pain would be my fault if I upset him.”

Dad went still.

Celia turned toward him.

“Raymond, you know you had health concerns.”

“I had a checkup. My doctor cleared me.”

I stared at him.

“You weren't sick?”

“No.”

For three years, I had carried the possibility of killing my father with a complaint.

Now he looked as stunned as I felt.

Celia gathered her folder.

“This conversation is over.”

“Leave the copies,” Dad said.

She dropped them onto the table.

Then she went upstairs.

Aunt June followed at a distance while Dad stayed with me.

I listened to drawers opening.

A few minutes later, Celia came down with another case.

At the door, she paused.

“You think the money belonged to your mother alone?”

Dad frowned.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She looked at me.

“Ask your aunt what happened before Ruth died.”

Then she left.

I turned toward June.

Her face had gone pale.

And the fear I had started to put down came rushing back.