I spent $480,000 building my parents a mountain ho…

At the anniversary dinner, along with the ribboned key box, I had given them a leather folder from my attorney’s office. My mother had cried and set it aside without opening it. My father had tapped the cover and said, “Whatever it is, we trust you.”

Then someone had poured champagne.

Corinne had taken pictures by the fireplace. The night had moved on. They had never asked me about the folder again.

Now the real estate agent looked at my parents with professional caution. “Mr. and Mrs.

Vail,” he said carefully, “is there some kind of title issue I should know about?”

My father answered too fast. “No.”

I turned to the agent. “Did they tell you they own this house?”

Silence.

It was small, but it was enough. He took out his phone. My father shifted toward him