They were already applauding when I came through the door. My brother had my father’s recliner, a beer in one hand and a folder on his knee, telling the room he had sold my little house for four hundred and ten thousand and that I ought to be relieved. My mother whispered that they were proud of how quietly he had handled everything. My father said homeownership is a lot and that Colby had stepped in before things got worse.

The signature on that power of attorney was lovely. Smoother than mine has ever been. He said I had signed it in my kitchen the day before I left, and I told him I had left from my office, and he blinked exactly once.

Then the buyers’ attorney called to ask why police were in his office.