Clara reached her hand inside the empty green hatbox, pulling up the faded satin lining. Sure enough, a folded piece of heavy cream paper was tucked underneath, stamped with the seal of the Lucas County Recorder’s Office. The document was dated November twelfth, signed and sealed.

“I did it because I wanted you to sleep easy,” Clara read, her voice breaking completely now. “You’ve worked seventy hours a week for fifty years for us, Earl. It’s your turn to rest. I love you. I always have. Don’t let Martha take my mahogany dresser. It belongs to Clara.”

A small, wet laugh came out of my throat, and I felt a tear run down my cheek, hot and stinging. Martha turned around from the window, her face completely pale. She stared at the cream-colored deed in Clara’s hand, then at the hatbox.

“Well,” Martha said, her voice sounding small and dry. She set June’s silver hairbrush back down on the dresser, smoothing her skirt. “I suppose I should get going. Richard will be waiting for lunch. We can finish the rest of this next week.”

She didn’t wait for us to say anything. She picked up her coat, her high heels clicking quickly down the hallway, and then the front door clicked shut. The house was dead quiet for a second, and then the grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour.

Clara set the last card in my lap, right on top of the deed. I reached down and touched the rough watercolor paper of the oak tree card. I’d won. The house was mine, and June had made sure of it, even as her own strength was fading.

But I didn’t feel some grand, triumphant wave of relief. I just felt the heavy, quiet truth of fifty-two years of quiet love.

Clara got up and went to the kitchen, and a few minutes later, I heard the whistle of the kettle on the stove.

Mostly, I sat on the edge of the bed and held the cheap cards in my lap, looking out at the Toledo winter. You win the house, and then it’s just a Tuesday again. But the tea was warm.