A few weeks ago, I got a call from two sisters whose mother had recently passed away. They explained that Mom had thoughtfully placed her home into a trust years ago and had named the two of them to handle everything after she was gone. This is exactly what we, as the real estate professionals who end up handling the sale, love to see done. It makes everyone’s life so much easier. Following all the logistics with the funeral, the burial and the subsequent potato casserole, the sisters rolled up their sleeves and got to work.

Now, when I say “got to work,” I don’t mean they stopped by the house a couple of times to grab Grandma’s dishes and a photo album, as anyone who has gone through this process is painfully aware of. No, not at all. They lived there. Almost literally. They spent nights, holidays and weekends at mom’s (very similar to the work schedule of a full-time Realtor).

These sisters sorted through decades of possessions. They hauled trailer after trailer to the dump. They donated mountains of household items. They painted walls. They made repairs. They scrubbed cabinets that hadn’t seen daylight since Ronald Reagan was president. They organized contractors. They swept, mopped, vacuumed, weeded, trimmed and cleaned until the house looked like it belonged in a magazine instead of an estate. This took months, not just weekends — but months. By the time they called me, the hard part was over. We thought.

Now, here’s a little behind-the-scenes look at what your Realtor does before sticking a sign in the yard. We verify ownership — every single time. I don’t care if you’ve got baby pictures on the front porch, carved your initials into the garage wall in 1972, and your next-door neighbor remembers when the street wasn’t even paved. We verify.

I pulled the county records expecting to see the trust listed as owner. Nope. There was no recording on the property saying it had been placed in a trust. “Huh.” Maybe the county website hadn’t updated. It happens. I kept digging and still nothing. I called the escrow officer and asked her to dig in. These girls swore up and down it was in a trust, and I had no reason to doubt it. I had known these girls for almost 20 years, so I didn’t doubt they truly believed a trust existed. One of the sisters verified that she even coughed up the money to pay the trust attorney.

A while later, the escrow officer called declaring that she had a full report now. “Whew!” I replied, “So where’s the trust?” Silence.

“There isn’t one,” she responded, defeatedly. Excuse me? Instead, she sent me a copy of a Transfer on Death Deed. I’m just going to quickly break it down in a Cliff Notes version.

A Transfer on Death Deed can be a wonderful estate planning tool. When the owner dies, the property passes directly to the people listed on the deed without going through probate. Simple, efficient and cost effective — unless there are six siblings, all six of whom are beneficiaries.

I picked up the phone and called the two sisters — the ones who had done everything to get this home ready to sell. Everything. “So, I didn’t realize you had four other siblings,” I announced. After a long pause, they verified that they did.

“We do.” Another pause. “But we don’t talk.”

Well, and therein lies the plot twist. Here is the vital detail that nobody knew until this moment: Every single one of those six siblings now owns the home — equally. This means that every single one of them had to agree to every single disclosure, repair, listing agreement, offer, negotiation, addendum, extension and closing document. Every. Single. Thing.

Now, let us pause to ponder one question: How hard is it to get six siblings to agree on where to eat Thanksgiving dinner? Exactly. Now imagine asking them to agree on a six-figure financial transaction after years — maybe decades — of not speaking to one another. I’d rather referee a fight between two grizzly bears in a salmon stream.

These two sisters had spent months doing every ounce of the heavy lifting. They invested sweat equity, time, money and emotional energy because they honestly believed they were carrying out their mother’s wishes. Instead, they had unknowingly prepared a house owned by six people. I wish I could tell you everyone hugged, apologized for decades of family drama, signed the paperwork and rode off into the sunset singing Kumbaya. They did not. After more ado than I can describe here, we signed each one, separately, and sent them on their way. And as far as I know, on their way home, they ran right into a circus parade.

Which brings me right back to Mulberry Street. Nobody lied or intentionally deceived anyone. Somewhere along the way, someone probably said, “Mom took care of everything. It’s in a trust.” A few years later, that became accepted family history. By the time it reached me, the horse had become the elephant. Here’s the lesson.

Please, for the love of your children, do not make your estate plan a scavenger hunt. Don’t assume everyone knows where your documents are. Don’t assume the deed says what you think. Because after you’re gone, your children will have enough to deal with without discovering that the story they’ve believed for years belongs in a Dr. Seuss book instead of the county recorder’s office.

Real estate has taught me many things over the years. One of the biggest? The shortest distance between a horse and an elephant — is one family assumption.

Jen Fischer is an associate broker and Realtor. She can be reached at 801-645-2134 or jen@jen-fischer.com.