I put the wooden train on the kitchen table.

Howard noticed it.

“For Lucas?”

“Yes.”

He removed his glasses.

“Do you still want to give it to him?”

“Of course.”

He nodded once.

Then he opened his briefcase.

The Paper Gavin Had Stopped Thinking About

Howard laid three documents on my kitchen table.

The first was the property record.

The second was the occupancy agreement.

The third was a ledger related to Gavin’s old debts.

I pointed at the ledger.

“Why that?”

“Because we need to separate two issues.”

He moved the property documents toward me.

“This is the house.”

Then the ledger.

“This is the money you advanced when his business failed.”

“I thought we were only dealing with the house.”

“We are, unless Gavin forces us to deal with the rest.”

I didn’t like hearing that.

Whatever had happened overnight, he was still my son.

Howard must have seen something in my face.

“Brenda, I’m not telling you to destroy him.”

“Good.”

“I’m telling you that for three years you’ve treated legal obligations like family favors.”

I looked down at the table.

He continued.

“Gavin may have started treating them that way too.”

My phone rang.

Gavin.

Howard looked at the screen.

“Answer it.”

I did.

“Hello?”

“Mom.”

His voice was cheerful.

Too cheerful.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“I just wanted to make sure we’re okay.”

I looked at Howard.

“Are we?”

There was a pause.

“Come on, Mom.”

“I’m asking.”

“Gertrude is difficult. You know that.”

“I do.”

“And Pamela’s stressed.”

“Okay.”

Another pause.

He had expected me to help him.

To finish the explanation for him.

I didn’t.

Finally he said, “It’s one birthday.”

I ran my finger along the edge of the occupancy agreement.

“Did Lucas ask me not to come?”

Silence.

“He’s seven.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Gavin lowered his voice.

“No.”

Howard wrote something on a legal pad.

“Did Pamela ask you to tell me?”

“Mom.”

“Yes or no?”

“Gertrude thought it would be better.”

There it was.

Not Lucas.

Not even Pamela, apparently.

Gertrude.

A woman who had never paid a property tax bill on that house was deciding whether I was allowed through its front door.

I didn’t say that.

Instead I asked, “And you agreed?”

Gavin was quiet long enough to answer without words.

Then he said, “I’m trying to keep the peace.”

“I understand.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

I looked at Howard.

He shook his head slightly.

Not yet.

So I said, “Because I do.”

Gavin sighed.

“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“All right.”

He hung up.

Howard set down his pen.

“You heard him confirm it.”

“Yes.”

“And you gave him an opportunity to correct it.”

I nodded.

Howard pushed the property agreement toward me.

“Then you have a decision to make.”

Outside my kitchen window, my neighbor was loading soccer equipment into an SUV.

A dog barked somewhere down the street.

It was an ordinary Saturday morning.

I looked at the wooden train.

Then at the papers.

“What happens if I enforce it?”

“We serve notice that their occupancy rights have been revoked under the agreement. We give them the required period to leave voluntarily before pursuing anything further.”

“How long?”

Howard showed me the provision.

Seventy-two hours after formal notice.

I read it twice.

“Can I give them more?”

“Yes.”

“Can I change my mind?”

“Before we serve it, yes.”

I sat there for nearly a minute.

Howard didn’t rush me.

That was why I had kept him as my attorney for twenty years.

Finally, I picked up the pen.

“Prepare it.”

He didn’t move.

“You’re sure?”

I thought about Gavin’s thumbs-up.

Pamela thanking me for understanding.

Lucas telling me about the cake with the tunnel.

And Gertrude sitting in a house she apparently believed belonged to her daughter’s family, deciding which grandmother was acceptable enough to attend a seven-year-old’s birthday.

“Prepare it.”

Howard gathered the papers.

“I’ll need about an hour.”

“Howard.”

He looked up.

“I want to be there when he receives it.”

He studied me.

“At the house?”

“Yes.”

“During the party?”

I looked at the wooden train.

“That’s when they told me not to come.”

Howard closed his briefcase.

“Then I’ll meet you here at ten-thirty.”

After he left, I went upstairs.

The red ribbon was still lying beside the train.

I wrapped the gift carefully.

Blue paper.

Red ribbon.

A small card.

I wrote only:

Happy seventh birthday, Lucas.

Love, Grandma.

At 10:26, I placed the gift on the passenger seat of my car.

At 10:33, Howard pulled into my driveway.

He stepped out holding the same leather briefcase.

“Last chance.”

I locked my front door.

“No.”

We drove separately.

Gavin lived seventeen minutes away.

As I turned onto his street, I could already see balloons tied to the mailbox.

Cars lined both sides of the road.

A blue banner hung across the front porch.

Children were running through the yard.

For a moment, I almost kept driving.

Then I saw something through the open front window.

Gertrude.

She was standing in my son’s living room holding a glass of iced tea and laughing with two women I didn’t recognize.

I parked.

Howard pulled in behind me.

He came to my driver’s side as I lifted Lucas’s present from the passenger seat.

“Ready?”

I looked at the house.

Three years earlier, I had stood in that same driveway while Gavin carried Lucas through the front door for the first time.

My son had hugged me and said:

“You saved us, Mom.”

Now there was a birthday balloon tied to the mailbox and I had been told not to cross the property line.

I held the wooden train against my chest.

“Yes.”

We walked up the driveway together.

A few people noticed us.

The conversations closest to the porch became quieter.

Then the front door opened.

Gavin stepped outside.

The smile disappeared from his face when he saw Howard.

His eyes moved to the briefcase.

Then to me.

“Mom?”

I stopped at the bottom of the porch steps.

“Happy birthday to Lucas.”

Gavin looked behind him.

Pamela had appeared in the doorway.

Gertrude stood several feet behind her.

“What are you doing here?” Gavin asked.