She looked frightened.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” she said.
My father turned.
“We are only looking.”
“Clara will know.”
“How?”
My mother glanced around the room.
For one terrible second, her eyes seemed to settle near the tablet, but then she looked away.
“She has the permit papers,” she said.
“The authorization we signed says she was building the residence for her own permanent use.”
Their attorney’s chair creaked as he leaned toward my father.
On the screen, my father’s voice sharpened.
“That is not a deed.”
“It also says we approved the separate utility account and exclusive occupancy.”
“Then we say it was temporary.”
My mother shook her head.
“It was not temporary, and you know it.”
Ava crossed her arms.
“Mom, whose side are you on?”
My mother looked toward the hallway where Nora’s room was painted pale yellow.
“I’m on the side that lets me sleep at night.”
The video ended when Nora entered the room.
Her face appeared close to the camera, confused and worried.
She reached for the tablet, and the screen went dark.
For several seconds after the recording stopped, the courtroom stayed silent.
Then the judge removed her glasses.
“Counsel,” she said to my parents’ attorney, “did your clients disclose this visit or these statements to you?”
He did not answer immediately.
“I was not aware of the recording, Your Honor.”
“That was not my question.”
He turned toward my father.
My father whispered something I could not hear.
The lawyer’s expression changed—not dramatically, but enough.
The polished sympathy disappeared.
What remained was calculation.
“My clients informed me that the defendant had been permitted to occupy the structure,” he said carefully.
“They did not characterize the arrangement as an ownership transfer.”
The judge looked at my mother.
“Did you and your husband promise your daughter permanent ownership or permanent exclusive use in exchange for her financing construction?”
My mother stared at the paper cup between her hands.
My father spoke first.
“That question misstates—”
“I asked your wife.”
My mother’s shoulders trembled.
Ava leaned toward her.
“Mom.”
It sounded like a warning.
My mother finally looked at me.
It was the first time our eyes had met that morning.
I saw shame there, but shame was not the same as courage.
Shame looked inward.
Courage required her to do something that might cost her.
“Yes,” she whispered.
My father’s head snapped toward her.
The judge waited.
My mother swallowed.
