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Several guests lowered their glasses.
Someone quietly whispered, “Jesus.”
My father stepped forward.
“You can’t prove she was competent when she signed anything.”
Harold calmly slid a paper onto the dining table.
“Actually, I can.”
Attached were signatures from two physicians, a neurologist, and a video-recorded statement confirming Grandma’s mental competency during the execution of every legal document.
My father’s face changed.
Not anger anymore.
Calculation.
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