Marcus kept talking, pacing like he owned the floorboards Dad laid himself. He told me the realtor was coming Tuesday. He told me Mom’s medical bills were my problem now because I’d chosen to play nurse. He told me if I fought him, he’d have me declared unfit and take guardianship too. Then he slid a pen across the counter and tapped the deed transfer papers. I picked up the pen. I clicked it twice. And then I set it down. “Marcus,” I said softly, “before I sign, you should probably meet someone.” I walked to the living room and opened the door. Mom’s estate attorney, David Chen, stood up from the armchair where he’d been sitting the entire forty minutes. Behind him, on the coffee table, was a leather folder I recognized. Marcus’s face went the color of dishwater. “Dad changed the will eleven months before he passed,” David said calmly. “Elena has been the sole trustee and beneficiary of this property since then. Your father was very specific about why.” He opened the folder and turned it toward Marcus. Inside were screenshots — the texts Marcus had sent me at 2 a.m. last spring calling Mom a burden. The voicemail where he laughed about letting her “rot in Medicaid.” The email to his wife about waiting for the inheritance. Dad had seen everything. Dad had kept everything. “There’s also the matter,” David continued, “of the forty-seven thousand dollars you withdrew from your mother’s account using a power of attorney that was revoked in February. The bank has been notified. So has the state.” Marcus reached for the papers. I slid them away. “You wanted the house by Friday,” I said. “You’ll get served by Friday instead.” He stumbled backward into the doorframe Mom used to mark our heights on. I looked at the pencil lines — mine, his, the years we were still a family. Then I picked up my casserole and walked past him, upstairs, to feed the only parent who still remembered how to love me back.
