Sign the house over to me, Eleanor, or I’ll have you declared mentally unfit

I picked up the papers, glanced at them, and set them gently next to the fruit bowl. “Brittany, sweetheart,” I said, “before you call your lawyer, let me call mine.” I tapped my phone twice. “Margaret? Yes, it’s Eleanor. Could you join us? And bring the folder.” Brittany’s smile flickered. Daniel finally looked up. Twelve minutes later, my attorney Margaret Whitfield walked through the front door with a leather portfolio and the same calm she’d had for thirty years. She set it on the island and opened it like a magician revealing a card. “Eleanor placed this property into an irrevocable family trust in 2019,” Margaret said. “She is the sole trustee. The house cannot be signed over, sold, or transferred without her written consent. Any attempt to declare her incompetent triggers an automatic review by three independent physicians she selected herself.” Brittany’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. “There’s more,” Margaret continued. “Eleanor also recorded the last four visits in this kitchen. Including the one six weeks ago when you told Daniel, and I quote, ‘the old bat won’t last another winter, and the house alone is worth two million.'” Daniel went the color of skim milk. I finally spoke. “Daniel, you have until Sunday to decide who you came from and who you married. Brittany, you have until I finish this cup of tea to leave my house.” She grabbed the papers, tearing one in her shaking hand, and stormed toward the door. At the threshold she spun around. “You’ll regret this, Eleanor!” I lifted my mug. “Honey, I’ve buried a husband and survived breast cancer. You think your tantrum scares me?” The door slammed. Daniel sat down at the island and started to cry. I poured him a cup of tea, slid it across the granite, and said the only thing Walter would’ve wanted me to say. “Welcome home, baby. Now let’s talk about who you want to be.”