Eighteen hours after my father marries Patricia, she tells me she’s moving her son into my dead mother’s study. She says it so sweetly, like it’s already decided. My father says nothing. I think he’s chosen her. Then he closes the study door and hands me a manila envelope. The deed to our house on Marlowe Point. Signed in April. Recorded in my name. A trust has been paying the taxes so no one would notice. He heard Patricia on the phone in March: she’d looked up the house’s value, planned to add her name, planned to take everything. Now she’s downstairs rearranging my mother’s lamp, believing she’s won. But the house isn’t my father’s anymore. It’s mine. And I’m done being silent.