Sign the house over to your brother, Mom, or don’t bother calling yourself my

Brielle saw the envelope and laughed. “What is that, Hannah, another one of your little spreadsheets? Mom already knows you’re the helper. Trent and I are the providers.” Trent smirked into his bourbon. I slid the envelope across the linen toward Mom, not Brielle. “Open it when you’re ready,” I said softly. “It’s from Dr. Whitman’s office. And from Mr. Alvarez at First Carolina Trust.”

Mom’s eyes flickered. She knew both names. Dr. Whitman was the geriatric attorney who’d come to her hospital room in March, the day Brielle had been in Cabo posting margarita selfies. Mr. Alvarez was the bank officer who’d flagged the seventeen thousand dollars in “household expenses” Brielle had drained from Mom’s accounts since Dad died.

Mom opened it with shaking fingers. Inside was a revised living trust, signed and notarized eight weeks ago, witnessed by her pastor and her oncologist. The lake house, the Charlotte property, the brokerage account — all of it placed in an irrevocable trust with me as sole trustee. And stapled to the back: a forensic accounting of every charge Brielle had run, every forged signature, every transfer to Trent’s failing crypto LLC.

Brielle’s face went the color of the tablecloth. “You manipulated her. She wasn’t competent —”

“She was cleared by two physicians,” I said. “It’s all in the file. Including the police report I haven’t filed yet.”

Trent stood up so fast his chair scraped. Mom finally spoke, her voice thin but steady. “Sit down, Trent. Brielle — you have until Friday to return the bracelet, the watch, and the car. Hannah will decide the rest.”

Brielle stared at me, mascara already running. “You’d really do this to your own sister?”

I picked up my wine. “I didn’t do anything, Brielle. I just stopped being quiet.” Mom reached across the table, took my hand, and for the first time in years, squeezed it like she meant it.