She never looked at me when he spoke that way.
Mr. Whitman nodded sympathetically.
“And you believe your daughter influenced your mother’s decision to leave her the estate?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
My father gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Because there’s no other explanation. My mother worked her whole life to build something for this family. She wouldn’t have wanted it handed over to someone who can’t even take care of herself.”
The word family landed harder than the insult.
For years, my father had used it like a locked door.
My brother could walk through.
My mother could walk through.
I was expected to stand outside and prove I deserved a key.
“And what would your mother have wanted instead?” Whitman asked.
“She would have wanted the money kept in the family.”
I looked down at my legal pad.
I wrote five words.
I was never outside it.
