He brought a portable bassinet, clothes, the quilt my mother had made, and a framed photograph of my parents standing beside a lake.

The bungalow had been part of my mother’s family long before she married my father.

Frank had paid the taxes when I was young and helped me renovate it after college.

I had let Colton convince me that the property was an inconvenience.

“I can have my lawyers sort out its sale,” he had told me.

“You’re a Sterling now.

You don’t need that little place.”