Me holding a fish.
Me sitting on Dad’s shoulders.
Me blowing out birthday candles.
Piper moved slowly around the room.
“Mom, was this Grandpa’s house?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the problem.
My father had never told me he owned a cabin.
We searched the rooms until I found a folder in an old desk.
Inside were insurance papers, tax receipts, and a deed.
I read the name three times.
Corrine Hale.
Mine.
The property had been transferred to me when I was eight years old.
The same age I was in the photograph.
The same age Piper was now.
I called the county records office from the porch.
A clerk confirmed that the property was still legally mine.
Then I asked the obvious question.
“If I haven’t paid taxes on it, how is it still mine?”
“They’re current.”
“Who pays them?”
The clerk gave me the mailing name attached to the account.
Nadine Mercer.
I drove straight back to the garage-sale house.
Nadine opened the door before I could knock.
She took one look at the brass key in my hand.
“You found it.”
“Who are you?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Your father’s cousin.”
I stared at her.
“Why have I never heard of you?”
“You did when you were little. You just don’t remember me.”
She invited us inside.
Nadine explained that my father had bought the cabin when I was young and transferred it into my name because he wanted me always to have a place nobody could take from me.
After he died, my mother moved us several states away.
Addresses changed.
Phone numbers disappeared.
Nadine tried to find us, but eventually lost contact.
“So you just kept paying the taxes?”
“I couldn’t find you,” she said. “But I could keep the place safe.”
I looked toward Piper, who was sitting quietly beside me.
“And the rabbits?”
A faint smile appeared on Nadine’s face.
“Those belonged to you too.”
Apparently, when I was little, I had gone through a phase where I wanted every rabbit figurine I saw. My father bought them one by one and kept most of them at the cabin.
Years later, Nadine moved them to her house when part of the cabin roof needed repairs.
“I was finally clearing things out when you walked into my yard,” she said.
“You recognized me?”
“Not immediately. Then you told me your name. And when you said Hawthorn Lane, I knew.”
