It included a clause explicitly stating that Gran was of sound mind when she signed it, verified by an independent physician and a government inspector.
She had built a fortress around her final wishes because she knew exactly what her son would do once she was gone.
The room became completely silent.
The attorney stopped reading and placed the folder flat on the table.
Dad did not shout.
He didn’t pound his fist.
He didn’t even stand.
He casually lifted the lawyer’s courtesy cup of Earl Grey tea, took a slow sip, and dragged his eyes over me.
Then he placed the cup back onto its saucer without a sound.
He smirked.
“Your grandmother always had a foolish soft spot when she was scenile. You think you can keep it, little soldier?”
I sat perfectly still.
Back straight.
Hands flat against the polished table.
Fingers evenly spread—the same way I centered myself before cross-examination.
