My flight landed at dawn, and I did not go straight home. I went to a locksmith, then to my attorney’s office, then to the county recorder to pull the certified copy of my deed, the one with my name and my late husband’s, and no one else’s, printed across the top. By the time I pulled into my own driveway that afternoon, I was not a tired old woman returning early from vacation. I was the sole legal owner of a property, holding recorded proof of a trespass, with a lawyer already drafting the letters. The moving truck Vanessa had scheduled was due in two days. She had no idea I was already home, or that the locks she held a key to had been changed before lunch.

I sat in my living room, on the rug my husband bought me, and waited. At six that evening, a key scraped uselessly against my new front lock, followed by the muffled sound of Vanessa’s confusion, then her mother’s voice, then her father’s. I opened the door myself. The three of them stood on my porch, and behind them, absurdly, sat two of their own dining chairs already unloaded onto my lawn, as though they had begun moving in early. Vanessa’s careless smile flickered when she saw me. “Eleanor,” she said, recovering fast, “we didn’t know you were back. We were just, checking on the house for you.” I looked at her, calm as the ocean I had left behind, and said, “I know exactly what you were doing. I watched all of it. So did my attorney.”