The copper taste of drywall dust always lingered in my throat after a ten-hour shift.

I rubbed my calloused thumb against the brass key in my pocket as I unlocked the front door.

Ten years of pulling thick copper wire through freezing damp basements in Cleveland had paid for this one-bedroom apartment.

Inside, the radiator hissed, clanking against the floorboards in the corner of the small living room.

My family was already waiting for me under the yellow glare of the cheap overhead light fixture I had installed myself.

My mother sat on the worn corduroy sofa, her shoulders rigid.

My father sat beside her, his hands—heavy and scarred from thirty years at the steel mill—resting flat on his knees.

Between them sat my younger sister, Megan.

She was bundled in a thick wool blanket despite the stifling heat of the room.

Her wheelchair was parked near the television, though she had opted to sit in the cushioned armchair today.

“You’re late, Sarah,” my mother said, her voice clipped.

“Traffic on Interstate 90 was backed up,” I said, setting my heavy tool bag by the entryway.

The leather bag hit the linoleum floor with a dull thud.

My father did not look up at the sound; his eyes remained fixed on his boots.

“We don’t have much time,” my mother said, sliding a blue plastic folder across my laminate kitchen table. “The notary is expecting us to call them by five.”

I walked over to the table and looked down at the documents inside the folder.

It was a quitclaim deed for my apartment.

The paper asked me to transfer the title of my home to Megan for the sum of ten dollars and love.

“I paid off the bank last month,” I said, keeping my voice quiet. “This place is mine.”

“Your sister needs stability, Sarah,” my mother snapped, her fingers tightening around her purse. “She cannot climb the stairs to her third-floor rental anymore. Her condition is worsening.”

Megan let out a soft, dry cough into her tissue, her shoulders trembling under the heavy blanket.