“A two-bedroom bungalow on Linden Street,” I said evenly. “I bought it three years before you proposed. It’s been rented to a nurse who just moved out last week.” Gail recovered first. “Well,” she said, her smile stretching thin, “then you’ll sell it, and the money can go toward this house. That’s what family does.” Brett nodded slowly, as if that had been his idea too.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I reached into my bag and set a manila envelope on the marble counter, right beside the dripping soup spoon. “Before anyone sells anything,” I said, “maybe one of you can explain this.” Gail saw the red letters through the clear window and went white. NOTICE OF DEFAULT AND INTENT TO FORECLOSE. “I found it under the grocery list,” I said. “Three months behind.”