My first call was to my younger brother, Warren, a family attorney who had drafted every legal document Deborah and I owned. I set the phone on the counter and put it on speaker so Colby and Renata would hear each word. “Warren,” I said, watching my son’s face, “whose name is on the deed to this house?” Papers shuffled on the other end. Then Warren’s voice came through, clear and unhurried. “Yours and Deborah’s, jointly. No one else is on the title, and there’s no clause promising the property to anyone.” Renata’s tape measure slipped from her hand and clattered against the tile floor.

Colby opened his mouth, but I raised one finger and made a second call. This one went to the locksmith whose company had installed the very keypad Colby had reprogrammed that afternoon. I asked, loud enough for the room to hear, whether a homeowner could remove an unauthorized user from a smart lock and restore full control that same night. The answer was yes. The confidence drained out of my son’s face right there in the kitchen he had already begun measuring for cabinets that would never be his.