My father didn’t even attempt to hide his hostility.
“She doesn’t deserve a dollar,” he announced loudly enough for several people nearby to hear.
“She’s always caused problems.”
Their attorney, a silver-haired man named Gil Farrow, smiled politely.
To him, this was a straightforward case.
To all of them, I was still the same daughter they had underestimated for decades.
Quiet.
Compliant.
Easy to overpower.
The girl who “drifted” after college.
The girl who “never settled.”
The girl who, according to the petition on the judge’s desk, was “unemployed, itinerant, and without fixed residence for the past eleven years.”
Eleven years.
They had that number right, at least.
The proceedings began.
Their lawyer spoke first.
He portrayed me as unstable, irresponsible, and somehow capable of convincing my grandmother to disinherit her own children.
He spoke with absolute confidence.
As though my character had already been decided.
I didn’t interrupt.
I didn’t argue.
I simply listened.
And waited.
