She hung up.
My father called an hour later.
I didn’t answer.
His voicemail was short.
“That money belongs to the family, not you. The court will finally see what you really are.”
I listened twice.
Then I saved it.
The next morning, Mom left another message.
“Give it back before this becomes ugly.”
I saved that one, too.
Nineteen days after Nana died, the lawsuit arrived.
My parents were contesting the will.
They claimed Nana had suffered from declining mental capacity.
They alleged I’d isolated her from family members.
They claimed I’d manipulated her into changing her estate plan.
And they insisted that the distribution was inconsistent with what she would have wanted.
I read the complaint standing in my kitchen.
Then I sat down and read it again.
I had spent years helping people understand allegations, evidence, and legal procedure.
I knew what a complaint was.
