She passed him the phone.
“What second file?”
I asked.
“I don’t know.”
The phone buzzed again.
The original deed is still with me.
If you want your parents to keep the house, come alone.
Dad stood so quickly the bucket scraped across the floor.
“The original deed?” he said.
Robert raised one hand.
“Please sit down.”
But Dad didn’t.
“That deed belongs here,” he said.
“Michael gave it to me.”
I remembered the day clearly.
I had placed the sealed envelope in the blue tin myself.
The deed had been recorded, of course, but the original closing packet had held sentimental value.
Dad had joked that he would keep it safer than a bank.
I looked inside the tin.
The closing statement was there.
The property tax records were there.
The insurance policy was there.
But the deed was missing.
So was the envelope containing my parents’ birth certificates.
