Sign the company over to me by Friday, Grandpa, or I’ll have you declared

I didn’t pour the brandy. I walked to the bookshelf, pulled down the worn leather binder Grandpa kept behind his old Navy photo, and laid it on the desk between them. Trevor laughed. “What’s that, your little recipe book?” “It’s the trust amendment,” I said. “Signed eleven months ago. Notarized. Filed.” His smirk cracked, just at the corner. Grandpa cleared his throat, soft but steady. “Trevor. Hannah has been operating director of Hale Logistics since March. The board voted unanimously last quarter.” “That’s impossible. I’m the heir, I’m the—” “You’re a name on a Christmas card,” Grandpa said. “She’s the one who learned the business.” Trevor lunged for the binder. I slid it back into my apron pocket. “Try declaring him unfit, Trevor. Dr. Patel did a full cognitive evaluation in April. It’s in the file. Right next to the recording of what you just said in this room.” His eyes shot to the small brass owl on the mantle. The one Grandpa had asked me to dust that morning. “You recorded me?” “Elder financial abuse is a felony in this state,” I said. “My attorney already has a copy. So does the board. So does your mother, actually. She called me an hour ago. She’s furious you used her name to get into this house.” Trevor’s brandy glass hit the rug. Grandpa finally smiled, the first real smile I’d seen in months. “Get out of my study, son. The locks change tonight.” Trevor stumbled out, sputtering about lawyers, but we both knew his lawyers had already stopped returning his calls when the retainer bounced. I knelt by Grandpa’s chair and cut him a slice of lemon cake, the way his mother used to. He squeezed my hand. “You should’ve poured the brandy on his head.” “I thought about it,” I whispered. “But cake lasts longer.” Outside, Trevor’s rental sped down the gravel drive. Inside, for the first time in a year, my grandfather laughed.