“That’s interesting.”

Because Darren had forgotten one very important detail.

I had never transferred the house to Mom.

The property was owned by a trust.

My trust.

And Darren didn’t even know it existed.

That afternoon, Darren gave me a tour of my own house as though he were proudly showing me his kingdom.

Mom’s sunny bedroom had become his private office.

Brooke had transformed the library into a massive dressing room.

The nurse’s suite was locked.

When Darren finally opened it, I found cases of wine stacked inside.

And Mom?

She slept downstairs beside the laundry room.

I said nothing.

Again.

Darren interpreted my silence as defeat.

At dinner, he lied comfortably.

“Mom’s dementia got much worse about two years ago,” he said while cutting into his steak.

She was sitting at the opposite end of the table struggling to hold a spoonful of soup.