Sign the house over to me by Monday, Margaret, or I’ll have you declared

I waited until Brittany set down her phone, smug, mid-sip. Then I slid a manila envelope across the table. “Before Monday,” I said, “you should probably read this.” She rolled her eyes, but she opened it. The color drained out of her face one document at a time. The first page was the deed to the Pasadena house — transferred eight months ago into an irrevocable family trust, beneficiaries being my two grandchildren, Lily and Sam. Not Brittany. Never Brittany. The second page was David’s actual will, the updated one he’d signed three weeks before the accident, which named me as sole executor and specifically excluded any spouse “in the event of pending dissolution.” Because, as it turned out, my son had quietly filed for divorce that spring. He’d told me everything over Sunday dinners she’d refused to attend. The third page was a forensic accountant’s report showing the $148,000 Brittany had siphoned from David’s business account into a personal crypto wallet in the months before he died. The fourth was a courtesy copy — the original was already with the Los Angeles County DA’s financial crimes unit. “You can’t,” she whispered. “I can,” I said. “I already did.” She started to cry the way people cry when they’re performing for a jury that isn’t there yet. I stood up, rinsed my mug, and set it gently in the sink. “The locksmith comes at four. Lily and Sam are moving into their father’s house this weekend — I’m their guardian on weekends per the custody order you didn’t bother to read. You have until then to pack the clothes you actually paid for.” At the door she tried one last time. “Margaret, please, I’m still family.” I turned, and for the first time in eleven months I let her see my husband’s smile on my face. “No, sweetheart. You were a guest. And guests who threaten the host get shown the door.” I closed it softly. I didn’t need to slam it. The deadbolt did that for me.