Sign the house over to your brother, Margaret. He has a real family to

Diane settled into David’s reading chair like she already owned it. Kyle propped his phone on the bookshelf to record. I pressed play. David’s face filled the screen, thinner than I remembered, but smiling. “Hey everyone. If you’re watching this, I’m gone, and Margaret kept her promise to gather you.” Diane dabbed her eyes performatively. Then David’s tone shifted. “Mom, Kyle, I need you to listen carefully. Three years ago, when I got the diagnosis, I asked you both for help. Mom, you told me hospice was a ‘lifestyle choice.’ Kyle, you asked if I’d updated the will yet. Margaret drove me to every appointment. She sold her grandmother’s pearls to cover the experimental treatment. She slept in a hospital chair for ninety-one nights.” The room went silent. Kyle slowly reached for his phone to stop recording. “Leave it on, Kyle,” David said, like he’d known. “The lake house, the Dallas property, the trust, the company shares, everything goes to Margaret. Outright. There’s nothing to contest because I transferred the assets into our joint revocable trust eighteen months ago. Burt Halstead handled it. He’s standing in that room right now.” Burt, who I’d introduced as a family friend, gave a small wave from the corner. Diane’s wine glass slipped from her fingers and rolled across the rug. “One more thing,” David continued. “Mom, the loan you took against my name in 2019? I have the documents. Margaret has been instructed not to press charges if you vacate the guest cottage by Sunday. Kyle, the company laptop you ‘borrowed’? Forensics already pulled it.” The video ended. I finally looked up. Diane’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish. Kyle was halfway to the door. I picked the tray of sandwiches back up. “Anyone still hungry?” I asked softly. “Or should I help you pack?”