About six months before he passed, he asked me to drive him to a lawyer’s office in downtown Columbus.
He didn’t explain why until we parked.
He sat there quietly, thinner than I’d ever seen him, one hand resting on his cane.
“Your mother thinks I don’t see what’s happening,” he said.
“And Lily thinks charm equals character.”
I gripped the steering wheel, confused.
He gave me that tired half-smile.
“A house belongs to the one who keeps it standing, Ava.
Not the ones who arrive after the storm.”
Inside, the attorney explained everything.
Because the house was solely in Dad’s name, he could set up a transfer-on-death.
That meant when he died, ownership would pass directly to me.
No probate. No arguments.
Dad signed the documents, his hand trembling just once.
Back in the car, I cried.
He told me to keep quiet unless necessary.
“Your mother will turn paperwork into a war,” he said.
“Let her be surprised.”
I didn’t realize how right he was.
After he died, the house felt wrong.
Familiar and empty at the same time.
His coffee mug sat untouched for days.
His chair felt like a wound in the room.
People came with casseroles and sympathy.
My mother played the grieving widow perfectly.