“You’re right. We should be fair.”
I held up a hand as Mr. Peters tried to shove the papers at me again.
“I’m not signing anything today. I’m sick. You said yourself I look terrible.”
“Leave the papers. I’ll… I’ll have my lawyer look at them.”
My words were a lie.
But they were the right lie.
It was a strategic retreat.
Andrew looked triumphant.
“Fine. Have your little lawyer look. It won’t matter. These are solid. We’ll be back. Friday, Hannah—be gone.”
They turned and left.
I watched them pile back into the sedan, Andrew patting Mr. Peters on the back.
The car spun on the gravel and sped down the drive.
I locked the deadbolt, my hands shaking.
I stumbled back to the sofa and collapsed, the adrenaline fading, leaving me weaker than before.
I was alone.
Sick.
And my family was trying to steal my home.
But as I drifted off into a feverish sleep, one thought kept repeating in my head—a tiny, hard kernel of an idea.
They were so focused on the inheritance.
They were so focused on the will.
But they had forgotten one crucial thing.
They had forgotten what I do for a living.
To understand my mother and brother, you have to understand my grandparents.
They were products of the Depression—tough, frugal, fiercely self-reliant.
They built their farm and their fortune from nothing.
My grandfather believed in sweat.
My grandmother believed in sense.
They loved me, and I adored them.
I spent every summer of my life at this farmhouse, learning to mend fences, balance ledgers, appreciate the value of a solid foundation.
I was the quiet one.
The responsible one.
The one who went to college and built a respectable career as an estate appraiser—work that required meticulous attention to detail and an understanding of value, both monetary and historical.
Andrew was Andrew.
The golden boy.
The charmer.
He could talk anyone into anything, but he never followed through.
He was a black hole for my mother’s money and attention.
His life was a string of almosts.
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