At my dad’s funeral, my brother said, «She’s just here for the money — dad’s going to cut her off.» Everyone watched the lawyer enter, holding a USB. My dad’s face appeared on the screen and said three words…

He was confused. Mr. Dawson didn’t blink. Your father’s will was amended two years before his health declined.

He was of sound mind. It’s witnessed, notarized, and on file with the court. There is no legal ground for dispute.

Mark opened his mouth to argue again, but stopped when he saw Dawson’s calm stare, the kind of stare that came with decades, in courtrooms and zero patience for entitled theatrics. Around us, the rest of the room had gone still. Some of the cousins were whispering now, others slipping out through the side door, coats clutched awkwardly, faces turned away from mine.

No one wanted to look me in the eye, not out of hatred this time, but out of something closer to guilt, maybe shame. Lindsay’s breathing had turned uneven. She looked like she didn’t know whether to cry or scream.

Her hands shook as she sat, the wine glass down too hard on the sideboard. This is a joke, she muttered. It’s a damn joke.

She turned and walked out without another word. Mark followed a few seconds later, his jaw clenched so tightly I thought it might crack and… Just like that, the room emptied. They thought they’d buried me ten years ago, but I was still here, and now they were the ones running.

The room was quiet now. Not awkward quiet, not tense, but still. Settled.

I stayed where I was for a long moment, Caleb beside me, his small hand resting in mine. His grip had loosened but he hadn’t let go, neither had I. No one else was left in the room. The murmur of retreating voices had faded down the hall.

Doors clicked shut. Footsteps disappeared. I rose slowly and walked toward the corner of the room where the old leather reading chair sat tucked beneath the bay window.

It was still there, unchanged, faded at the arms, creaking at the joints, worn into the shape of the man who once called it his throne. I stared at it for a second, then reached down and gently brushed my fingertips along the top edge. Goodbye, Dad, I whispered.

I forgive you. The words didn’t catch in my throat. They didn’t burn or twist, they just landed, like they had been waiting to.

Behind me, Caleb didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The fireplace crackled softly, casting a warm orange glow over the room…