Sign the papers, Grandma, or we put you in the cheapest home Medicaid will

I set the grocery bag down. Slowly. The paper crinkle made Diane’s head snap up. “Hannah. This is a private family matter.” “I am family,” I said. Uncle Rick rolled his eyes. “You’re the granddaughter who moved to the city. You don’t get a vote on the farm.” I walked to the table, pulled out the chair beside Grandma, and took her trembling hand. “Grandma, do you want to sign that?” She shook her head, tears spilling. “They said the bank’s coming Monday. They said I’ll lose everything if I don’t.” I nodded once. Then I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a folder. Diane’s smile flickered. “What’s that?” “Funny story,” I said. “Grandma called me eight months ago when you first started visiting more. I’m an estate attorney, Diane. Did you forget? You used to call my degree ‘a waste of tuition.'” I opened the folder. “This is a revocable trust, signed by Grandma in March, witnessed and notarized. The farm, the mineral rights, the savings — all moved into it. I’m the sole trustee.” Rick’s face went gray. “That’s not legal, she’s not competent —” “She has a cognitive evaluation from Dr. Patel dated the same week. Sharp as a tack.” I slid one more page across. “And this is the recording app on her phone. It’s been on every time you visited. Every threat. Every forged signature attempt. The Monday ‘bank deadline’? There is no deadline. You made it up.” Diane stood so fast her chair tipped. “You little —” “Sit down,” I said quietly, “or the next folder I open goes to the district attorney. Elder financial abuse is a felony in this state. Five to fifteen years.” She sat. Grandma squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. I poured the chamomile tea into two cups — just two — and slid Diane’s deed into the fireplace. The flames caught the corner first, then climbed. “Now,” I said, “get out of my grandmother’s house.”