Nobody mentioned that the last person to see June Ostrander alive, other than her caregiver, had been her granddaughter in the third row, on a video call from a ship, at 3 a.m. Pacific time, for nineteen minutes, while a chaplain held the tablet.
I did not mention it either.
Nana had asked me not to.
“Let them have the front row,” she’d written.
“I’ve reserved you a different seat.”
So when I received notice that they were contesting the will, I wasn’t shocked.
When I read their allegations — that I had manipulated my elderly grandmother and was incapable of responsibly managing such a large inheritance — I felt something far colder than anger.
I felt certainty.
Because I had read a great many petitions like that one.
I had, in fact, written the rebuttals to several.
The hearing took place three months later.
I arrived early.
No designer clothing.
No expensive jewelry.
Nothing that attracted attention.
Just a simple navy suit, neatly organized folders, and a calm expression.
I took my seat at the respondent’s table without speaking, alone, because I had not hired counsel, and I had told the clerk why in a filing my parents’ lawyer had evidently not read.
A few minutes later, my parents entered with their attorney.
Confidence practically radiated from them.
My mother spotted me immediately and rolled her eyes.
She was wearing the pearls.
