I set the champagne bottle down beside the diaper cake and laid the folder open on the table where everyone could see it. The music kept playing for a moment, then someone lowered it, sensing the shift in the room. Camille looked up from her wicker chair with the same easy smile, until she saw what the top page was. The deed. My name printed across it in clean black letters. Not my parents’ names. Not my brother’s. Not hers. Mine. I had bought the house outright and kept the title in my own name precisely because some part of me, even ten months ago, had known a moment like this might come.

“That’s interesting,” I said, keeping my voice level the way I’d promised myself I would, “considering this house isn’t yours.” Camille’s smile finally slipped. My brother stepped forward, stammering that they’d only assumed, that Mom and Dad had said it was fine, that they were family. I asked him one quiet question in front of all her guests. Whose signature did he see on that deed? He had no answer. The whole room, the caterers, the friends holding pink cocktails, the woman who’d asked if I was with catering, went silent and turned toward the pregnant woman in the wicker chair who had just been informed she was a guest in a house she’d tried to seize.