I added, “And because I wanted to.”
That stopped him.
My mother turned to Mr.
Bellamy.
“She was vulnerable.
She was grieving.
She wasn’t thinking clearly.”
The accusation landed exactly where Grandma had known it would.
Mr.
Bellamy did not appear surprised.
He reached into the folder again.
“My client anticipated that concern.”
Dad narrowed his eyes.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Mrs.
Hart asked me to document my meetings with her carefully because she believed someone might challenge her decision if her estate did not pass in the expected direction.”
He removed several pages.
He explained that Grandma had discussed her choices repeatedly and consistently.
She understood her property, the people in her family, and precisely how she wanted each asset distributed.
Nothing about her instructions had been impulsive.
My mother sat down again.
The pale cream purse dropped into her lap.
Ryan looked between my parents.
“So we fight it.”
He said it casually, like suggesting another restaurant.
Dad nodded once.
“Obviously.”
That word changed something in me.
Obviously.
Grandma had been dead six days.
They had just heard her voice through a letter explaining that she wanted me inside the room, wanted me recognized, wanted me to stop stepping aside.
Their first response was not to wonder why.
It was to figure out how to undo her.
Mr.
Bellamy’s expression cooled.
“You are entitled to obtain independent legal advice.
But before anyone makes decisions based on emotion, I suggest we finish the letter.”
My mother looked away.
I nodded.
Mr.
Bellamy unfolded Grandma’s pages again.
Her next words were for Ryan.
She wrote that she loved him.
Ryan’s expression softened for half a second.
Then came the rest.
Love, Grandma wrote, was not the same as rewarding neglect.
She had invited him repeatedly during the final months of her life.
He had answered sometimes, promised visits often, and arrived rarely.
She did not want her death to become more valuable to him than her living company had been.
Ryan’s face hardened.
“That’s messed up.”
My father murmured his name in warning.
But Grandma was not finished.
She wrote to my mother next.
“I know you will believe I am punishing you.
I am not.
