My father followed, his heavy leather dress shoes clicking on the cold pine floorboards.

My mother set the warm dish on the side table beside my grandfather’s brass desk lamp.

She turned around, twirling her single strand of pearls between her thumb and forefinger.

“We don’t want to go to court, Evelyn,” she said.

“It’s tearing me apart.”

“You signed the official court summons for Case 4238B,” I said.

“Your father was worried about the property taxes,” she said, looking down at her polished shoes.

“If you sign over half the acreage, we’ll drop the case today.