Three days before their move, she asked to meet me privately at the house.

I walked into the living room to find her beside a stack of taped boxes near the door.

She reached into her coat, drew out the brass spare key, and held it toward me with a shaking hand.

“I knew, deep down, that this house belonged entirely to you and Tristan,” she admitted.

I waited, silent.

“I knew Tristan worked two extra jobs to buy it.

I knew your father’s name was never on a single paper.” “Then why did you go along with taking my room?” She looked at the floor, tears filling her eyes.