I told my son his father just died. He said, «It’s my wife’s birthday». Weeks later! He got a letter from my lawyer . He read it and froze…

We talked to a lawyer, she said, arms crossed. And if this will isn’t revised, we may have grounds to question your capacity. And that’s when I finally spoke, calm and low.

Are you threatening to declare me mentally unfit? And Megan shrugged. I’m just saying it’s not unheard of. Grief does strange things to people.

And I saw Nathan flinch at that, whether from guilt or shame, I couldn’t tell. And then I heard the faint creak of the hallway floor upstairs, Ava shifting her weight, listening. And I knew every word being spoken was being absorbed by the only person in this family who still had a chance to see clearly.

I turned to Nathan and asked, do you agree with her? And he didn’t answer, just swallowed and looked away. And that silence was louder than anything Megan had said, because it confirmed what I needed to know. He wouldn’t stop her.

He wouldn’t stand up to her. He wouldn’t defend his mother or his father’s memory, not when it meant risking conflict in his own home. Megan took that silence as fuel, stepped closer and said, you’re tearing this family apart over money.

And I laughed, not loud, not mocking, just a single dry laugh, the kind you let out when something so absurd it crosses into tragedy. And I said, I’m tearing it apart? Gerald died alone. His own son didn’t show up.

And you’re worried about the inheritance? And that was when I saw Ava step into the hallway, halfway down the stairs, eyes wide but steady, and Megan turned, startled. But Ava didn’t say a word, just looked at her father, then me, then walked slowly back upstairs. And the weight of that silent moment hung in the room like a storm cloud waiting to break.

Megan noticed it too, her expression faltering for the first time and she said, she doesn’t understand. And I replied, she understands more than you think. And then I opened the front door, held it wide, and said, we’re done, here.

And Nathan stood without protest, walked out ahead of Megan. And she hesitated for one second, like she might say something else. But instead she followed, heels clacking against the tile.

And I shut the door behind them before her last. Step hit the porch. It was three weeks after that confrontation when I found it.

A small black flash drive inside an envelope tucked into my mailbox. No note, no label, just my name written in Ava’s careful 12-year-old handwriting. And my heart dropped because I knew instantly it wasn’t something playful or innocent.

This wasn’t a drawing or a digital birthday card. This was something serious, something secret. And when I plugged it into my laptop, I sat in silence as folders opened themselves to me like tiny windows into a world I hadn’t been allowed to see…