“Now you have both sets,” Ethan said.

“Thank you,” I said.

He looked across the parking lot toward the street, where Richard’s sedan was pulling out into midday traffic.

“My mother thought if she held the paper, she held the family,” Ethan said.

“Paper only holds what people agree to give up,” I said.

I opened the driver’s door, climbed into the front seat, and laid the stamped title transfer document on the passenger seat next to my tote bag.

The notary’s raised seal sat crisp in the lower right corner, permanently marking the paper with the official state emblem.