My mother’s hand flew to her mouth, trembling dramatically. My father’s eyes sharpened, already calculating.
“Fourteen million…” my mother whispered, like the number itself was sacred.
The attorney continued, but my father cut in.
“We can handle it,” he said smoothly, the same tone he used on teachers and bankers when I was little.
“We’re still her legal guardians. Anything left to her belongs to us until she’s—what? Twenty-five? Thirty?” He smiled like this was a formality. “Just tell us what we need to sign. We’ll manage it for her. For her own good.”
That was when I almost smiled.
Almost.
The attorney hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the door as if he were waiting for something.
Because he was.
The door opened behind me.
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