Once she was resting comfortably, I stepped into the hallway.

Then I made one phone call.

Harrison Vance had handled my domestic assets while I was working overseas.

I told him everything.

He asked me two questions.

“Did you ever sign a lease with them?”

“No.”

“Did they ever pay you rent?”

“Not one dollar.”

There was a pause.

Then Harrison’s voice became serious.

“Natalie, don’t argue with them again.”

He continued.

“Send me everything you have on the property.”

I opened my laptop.

The deed.

Property records.

Tax records.

Insurance documents.

Utility accounts.

Bank transfers.

Every piece of documentation I had kept while working overseas.

The house was mine.

I had purchased it.

I had paid for it.

I had maintained it.

And there was no lease giving Kloe and Julian ownership or tenancy rights simply because they had stayed there.

By early evening, Harrison called back.

I listened carefully.

Then I looked through the hotel window at the fading Texas light.

“What do you need from me?”

“Nothing else,” he said.

“Just be there at nine.”

At 8:45 p.m., I turned back onto my street.

The house was glowing.

Cars lined the curb.

Music came from inside.

Through the front windows, I could see people moving around the living room.

Julian and Kloe were entertaining guests as if nothing had happened.

As if my mother had never been kneeling outside.