The deed was in my name. That single fact was the anchor Preston and my father had somehow convinced themselves didn’t matter. I pulled up my files, found the title, the mortgage records paid entirely by me, and the informal arrangement that let Preston live there rent-free. There was no gift. No transfer. Nothing legal had ever moved that house out of my hands. I called my real estate agent, Marisol, a woman who had helped me buy the place four years earlier and remembered exactly how much of myself I had poured into it.

“I want to sell,” I told her. “Quietly. Fast. Before the fourteenth.” She was silent for a moment, then asked why the rush. I explained the wedding, the invitations, the brother who told strangers he was an only child. Marisol exhaled slowly. “Camille,” she said carefully, “there’s already a cash buyer who’s been asking about that street for months. But you should know something before you sign anything.”