I remembered her saying, “Perhaps your father is busy.”
She never complained for long.
She simply stopped expecting him.
I gripped the edge of the lectern.
“My grandmother was able to express her own preferences,” I said. “And there is a difference between someone choosing not to receive a visit and someone being prevented from receiving one.”
Judge Morrison made a note.
I continued with the records.
I didn’t exaggerate them.
The logs couldn’t establish what happened during every conversation.
They couldn’t prove that every family interaction had been pleasant.
But they directly contradicted my parents’ claim that I’d physically isolated Nana by controlling access to her facility.
That mattered.
Because the next part of their case depended on the same story.
They wanted the judge to believe Nana had been helpless.
Separated from everyone.
Entirely dependent on me.
And incapable of resisting my wishes.
The medical documentation told a more complicated and much more ordinary story.
