A second message arrived immediately: a photo of my father, smiling next to a pile of suitcases in a brightly lit airport terminal.
Around the world, baby. Finally!
A chill ran through me. I called immediately. Voicemail. I checked my bank accounts, thinking it was a bad joke. Nothing. No transfers. No alerts.
So I logged into the county land registry service, the one Nana's lawyer had insisted I sign up for — the one that sends a notification as soon as a change is recorded on the deed.
And there it was, displayed, time-stamped that afternoon:
REGISTERED DOCUMENT: DEED OF ASSIGNMENT — TRANSFER OF OWNERSHIP.
My hands were shaking when I opened the document. A sale. My house by the lake. Sold.
I called Luis. He answered, breathless.
"Emily, there are strangers inside. A real estate agent installed a key box on the door. They say your parents gave their permission."
The silhouette of Chicago blurred behind my hotel room window as I imagined my parents walking towards their boarding gate, smiling, as if they had just won the lottery.
Then another email landed in my inbox — sent by a title company.
URGENT: verification required for the trust administrator's signature.
I read it once. Then a second time.
