My father turned slowly from the bassinets.
The room changed.
It was subtle, but I felt it. The air tightened. Even the morning light seemed to pale against the windows.
“What exactly did he bring you?” my father asked.
I pointed to the folder on the bedside table.
He picked it up and read through the pages in silence.
My mother stood beside him, reading over his shoulder. Neither of them reacted at first. Then my mother gave a small laugh.
It was not amused.
It was almost pitying.
“Oh, Adrian,” she whispered. “You foolish little man.”
I wiped my eyes. “He said the house is already being transferred to Celeste.”
My father looked at me over the papers.
“Did you sign anything?”
“No.”
“Good.”
My mother picked up the property waiver. “This is sloppy.”
“Sloppy?” I repeated.
“Insultingly so.” She turned a page. “He assumed fear would do the legal work for him.”
