Sign the house over to me, you ungrateful little orphan, or I’ll make sure

Patricia slid the papers toward me with one manicured finger. “Sign. Tonight. Or we drag your father’s name through every tabloid in New England.” Brent chuckled. Marissa filmed me on her phone, hoping, I guess, to catch me crying. I set down my tea. “Aunt Patricia,” I said softly, “do you remember the summer I was twelve? You told Dad I was ‘too plain’ to inherit anything. He never forgot that.” Her smile flickered. I reached into the drawer beside me and pulled out a slim leather folder. Inside was Dad’s actual will, notarized three weeks before he passed, along with a letter addressed to her. I slid it across the marble. “Read the second paragraph. Out loud. For the camera Marissa is so kindly running.” Her hands trembled as she read: “To my sister Patricia, who spent thirty years borrowing money she never repaid and poisoning my daughter’s childhood with cruelty, I leave nothing. Not the lake cabin she’s been squatting in. Not the trust she’s been skimming from. My attorney, Margaret Chen, has documented every withdrawal.” Patricia’s face went gray. Brent stopped smirking. “The cabin,” I continued, “is being repossessed Monday. The trust fraud has been reported to the state attorney’s office. Margaret called this morning to confirm the filing.” Marissa lowered her phone. “Mom, what is she talking about?” Patricia opened her mouth, but nothing came out. I stood up, finally, and walked to the front door, opening it to the rain. “Dad knew exactly who you were. He just wanted me to be the one to tell you. Now please, get off my property before my security escorts you off it.” A black SUV was already idling at the gate. Patricia stumbled out first, her papers fluttering uselessly onto the wet stone steps. Marissa was crying. Brent wouldn’t look at her. I closed the door, leaned my forehead against the cool wood, and whispered, “Thanks, Dad.” Outside, the rain finally started to ease.