I stared at the closing date and my hands went ice-cold. I called Mara, my attorney, who told me to breathe, told me to get every document into her email and to meet her at the title company at nine. I stuffed the mail into a bag, grabbed my keys—my keys now—and drove.
The title office smelled like coffee and paper. A young woman led us into a conference room where three binders were spread like evidence. Mara read aloud: a grant deed, an acknowledgment, an affiant swearing I’d signed. The notary’s stamp matched the one in my box. I felt twelve and stunned.
“Open an investigation,” Mara said. “We file an emergency injunction and call the recorder. You cannot close this today.” The manager frowned. “We thought everything was in order,” she said, scripted.
Outside, Michael paced, phone pressed to his ear, his jaw taut. My sister stood beside him, arms folded, but when I caught her eye she looked away. They had arranged movers then—boxes labeled with my name on the curb. People barked and stared.
“Did you sign a power of attorney?” Mara asked. I had not. I told them how they left clothes on my porch like a cruel joke. A deputy arrived and asked if I wanted to file a report. I nodded. It felt like building a wall around myself that I had never needed before.
By noon the recorder flagged the parcel; the title company canceled the closing pending verification. Relief was a thin thread. They drove off with a cursed look, but my victory felt provisional. This house held memories and fingerprints of a life they wanted to erase. I sat on the front steps, breathing the October air, and realized that tomorrow I would have to fight for more than keys.
