I looked. The photographer slid the first image from the sealed envelope, and at first I did not understand what I was seeing. It was a wide shot of the reception, Rebecca’s father shaking hands with a man near the bar, both of them smiling. “Look at his left hand,” the photographer said. In it was a folded document, and beside it, resting on the bar, was a pen and what looked like a legal seal. He laid down three more photographs, each capturing the same quiet exchange from different angles across the night, always half-hidden behind the celebration, always with Rebecca’s father steering the moment away from the crowd.

“That man is a notary,” the photographer said quietly. “I recognized him because he does real estate closings in this city. So I checked the county records.” He turned the laptop toward me. “The night of your son’s wedding, while everyone was dancing, a property transfer was signed and notarized. Your son’s name is on it.” My mouth went dry. Michael had signed something at his own wedding, in the golden blur of champagne and music, and the metadata on these photographs proved exactly when. I asked the question I already dreaded. “What did he sign away?” The photographer hesitated, then slid the final document across the table. “The house your late husband left him. It’s worth just over two million dollars. And as of that night, it belongs to Rebecca’s family trust.”