Hand over the inheritance check, Eleanor, or I’ll have you declared mentally unfit by

Brandon snapped his fingers at me like I was a waitress. “Did you hear me, old woman? The estate is mine. Dad would’ve wanted his real family taken care of.” Madison giggled, sliding a crystal vase into her tote bag. I took a slow breath, the kind Harold taught me to take when the world tried to rush me. “Brandon,” I said softly, “before you continue, I think you should meet someone.” I stepped aside. From the study walked Mr. Aldridge, Harold’s attorney of forty years, followed by two officers from the county financial crimes unit. Brandon’s smirk dissolved. “What is this?” Mr. Aldridge opened his own folder. “Three months ago, Harold updated his will. Eleanor receives the lake house, the publishing royalties, and the trust. You, Brandon, receive exactly what you earned, which, per Harold’s notes, is nothing.” Madison’s vase slipped from her bag and shattered. But I wasn’t finished. I opened my folder and slid a stack of bank statements across the entryway table. “These are the withdrawals you made from your father’s account using the power of attorney he gave you in 2019. Forty-seven thousand dollars, Brandon. While he was dying.” The officers stepped forward. Brandon’s face drained of color. “Eleanor, please, we can talk about this, you’re family.” I tilted my head. “Funny. That’s the same word Harold used when he begged you to visit him in hospice. You didn’t come. I sat with him every night.” As they led Brandon out in handcuffs, Madison sobbing into her designer purse, I walked to the grandfather clock and rested my palm against the wood. “It’s just us now, my love,” I whispered. Outside, the lake glittered gold, and for the first time in months, I exhaled.