Hand me the keys to MY restaurant, dishwasher, before I have security drag you

I didn’t say a word. I just untied my apron, folded it neatly on the prep counter, and walked past him to the small office behind the wine rack. The regulars at table six — Mr. Petrelli, Mrs. Cohen, the Russo twins — watched in silence. Trevor laughed. ‘Going to cry to a lawyer, grease boy?’ I came back holding a thin manila folder. Inside was the deed to the building, the LLC registration, and the operating agreement. All three documents listed one name. Mine. ‘Mom transferred the restaurant into my name four years ago,’ I said quietly. ‘After your second bankruptcy. After you tried to mortgage her house behind her back. She kept it quiet because she didn’t want a fight at Sunday dinners.’ Trevor’s smirk cracked. ‘That’s impossible. The will—’ ‘The will divides her personal savings. Eighteen thousand dollars. Split evenly. You’ll get nine.’ I slid the folder toward him. ‘The restaurant was never hers to leave. It’s been mine since 2021.’ His face went the color of marinara. He grabbed for the papers, then froze when Mr. Petrelli stood up from table six. Mr. Petrelli — my mother’s lawyer for thirty years. ‘Everything he said is documented, Trevor. I drafted it myself. Your mother also left a letter. Would you like me to read the part where she explains why?’ Trevor didn’t answer. He was already backing toward the door, business cards spilling from his jacket pocket onto the tile. I picked one up. ‘Owner & CEO.’ I tore it in half and dropped it in the bus tub. Then I tied my apron back on. There were still dishes to wash. Mrs. Cohen reached for my hand as I passed. ‘Your mother knew, sweetheart. She always knew which son actually showed up.’ I just nodded, because if I’d opened my mouth, I would’ve cried into the dish soap. The next morning, I changed one thing on the front window. I added a single line under Mama’s Kitchen: ‘Est. 1984. Run by her son who stayed.’