According to him, I was a bitter, unstable granddaughter who had manipulated a vulnerable elderly woman into leaving me approximately $4.7 million.
According to my mother, I had isolated Nana June from the rest of the family.
According to my father, I was an incompetent failure who couldn’t manage ordinary responsibilities, much less a multimillion-dollar inheritance.
And according to the medical expert they had paid to testify, Nana might have been vulnerable to undue influence.
He had never actually examined her.
But that detail hadn’t stopped him from speaking with considerable confidence.
I sat alone at the opposite table in a plain navy suit.
Three folders rested in front of me.
The first contained my professional history.
The second contained Nana’s medical records, facility records, and documents related to her will.
The third contained correspondence, preserved voicemail messages, and the letter Nana had left specifically for me.
I had arranged everything in chronological order.
