I opened the deed. One owner. One name. Mine.
Nobody spoke.
“I have let you live here because you’re my family,” I said. “That does not make this house joint property.”
Nate stared at the document. Brianna’s arms slowly folded across her stomach.
“You can build any nursery you want.” Her eyes lifted. “Just not by dismantling my life to make room for it.”
Then I asked one question. “Where is my father’s red toolbox?”
Nate looked down. The silence changed. That toolbox had stood beside my workbench since before he was born.
Finally he said: “Storage.”
“And Carol’s wheel?”
“Storage.”
“Anything else?”
Neither of them answered.
I closed the property folder. “Get the key.”
“Dad, it’s late.”