At the attorney’s office, my stepmother smiled as the will was read aloud. “Every penny goes to me,” Victoria whispered, already reaching for the house keys. Dad’s best friend interrupted from the back row. “Before you celebrate, explain why Mike signed this last month…”

“Your father left everything to me,” Victoria said, waving a copy of Dad’s will over the dining table. “You can pack your things by the weekend.”

We had buried him three hours earlier.

My black dress still smelled faintly of the lilies from the funeral home. There were casseroles on the counter, condolence cards beside the sink, and a half-empty mug of coffee where Dad had left it before his final trip to the hospital.

“Victoria,” I said, “I live here.”

“Not anymore.” She tapped the document with one perfectly manicured finger. “Mike made his wishes clear.”

I looked toward Dad’s empty chair. He used to sit there every Sunday morning, repairing watches he never managed to fix. A shallow scratch ran along one arm where I’d dragged my bicycle past it when I was eleven.

For the last seven months of his illness, I had slept in my childhood bedroom in our house outside Columbus, Ohio. I’d driven him to appointments, counted out his pills, and learned to tell from the way he breathed when the stairs were too much.

Victoria had been his wife for five years. She was never especially warm toward me, but I had believed grief might make us gentler with each other.

Instead, she’d brought the will out before our relatives had finished their coffee.

“Your father promised I could stay,” I said.

“Then perhaps he should’ve put it in writing.”

Her sister lowered her eyes. Nobody spoke.

I reached into my coat pocket and closed my fingers around Dad’s brass house key. There was a fleck of blue paint near its teeth from the summer we painted the front door together. He’d given it back to me after my eighteenth birthday and told me I would always have a way home.

Victoria followed my gaze. “And leave your key on the counter.”

That was when someone moved behind us.

Frank Ellis, Dad’s best friend since high school, stood beside the doorway. His funeral tie was crooked, and rain had darkened one shoulder of his jacket.

“Victoria,” he said, “that isn’t what Mike told me last month.”

She gave a short laugh. “Frank, this is family business.”

“He made it my business.”

Frank opened a worn leather folder and took out a document bearing a county recording stamp, dated twenty-seven days before Dad died.

Victoria reached for it. Frank held it out of her grasp.

“Mike asked me to bring this,” he said, looking at me, “if anyone ever told Hannah she had to leave.”

Then he turned the page toward us, and Victoria’s smile disappeared.

Frank set the document on the table, carefully moving Dad’s coffee mug so it wouldn’t leave a ring on the paper.

Across the top were the words Transfer on Death Designation Affidavit. Below them was our home’s address and my name as the beneficiary.

Victoria stared at it. “He couldn’t have done that. His will leaves me the house.”

“His will leaves you what belongs to his probate estate,” Frank replied. “Mike wanted Hannah to speak to his attorney before you moved anything.”

Victoria snatched her phone from her purse. “He was sick. He didn’t know what he was signing.”

“He knew,” Frank said. “I drove him to the appointment.”

I watched Frank’s hand resting on the document. It was trembling. He’d spent forty years fixing air conditioners with Dad, and I’d never heard him speak to anyone so firmly.

I called the attorney named on the affidavit, Susan Patel. She confirmed that her office had prepared the document and that it had been recorded before Dad died. She asked me to bring the will and warned everyone not to change locks or dispose of belongings while the property questions were resolved.

Victoria nodded through the call, then waited until I hung up.

“You think a piece of paper makes you better than me?” she asked.

“No. I just want to stay in my home.”

She went upstairs anyway. I heard drawers opening, then the dragging sound of a suitcase across hardwood. When I reached the landing, she was stuffing my clothes into a laundry basket.

“Stop,” I said.

“I’m collecting what doesn’t belong here.”

Frank appeared behind me. “Victoria, leave her things alone.”

She shoved the basket toward my feet. Dad’s old flannel shirt slipped over its edge. I caught it before it touched the floor. The cuffs were still folded the way I’d left them after washing it for him.

Victoria pointed at the door. “You have until Friday, documents or no documents.”