My mother’s smile vanished. Her eyes hardened into something cold and calculating.
“Because, Rhys,” she murmured softly, her voice both sweet and poisonous. “You don’t really have a choice… not unless you want the truth of our family to come out.”
That should have terrified me.
Perhaps it would have happened a few years ago. What about now? It just made something in me become silent. Cold, even. I did not flinch. I didn’t inquire what she meant. I already knew.
Instead, I tilted my head slightly to examine her. For a brief minute, I felt as if I was seeing her for the first time, not as my mother, but as a stranger with sharp teeth and a meticulously kept façade.
“You’d better listen to me, Rhys,” she continued, her voice clipped. “Or you’ll regret it.”
I nodded once, not because I agreed, but because I didn’t want to waste another word on her.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
She turned and left, trailing behind her the scent of perfume and betrayal.
The calls began the very following day. At first, my mother spoke in that too pleasant tone she saved for performances.
“Are you doing okay, Rhys?” she said, before casually mentioning how proud Grandpa would be if I made the correct decision.
That phrase stayed in my throat like ash. By the second call, the act was ended. She went on to make demands, telling me that I was still her son and that being a “good boy” required sacrifice.
For family. For Marianne.
Marianne, of course, had her own tactics. She texted me pictures of her twins coloring on the living room floor, followed by a message.
“They would love to play in a real garden! When may we come and see the house, Rhys?”
I didn’t respond. I did not owe them that. Marianne tried again.
“Rhys, this isn’t just about me,” she explained in the one call she dared to make. “The kids need space. They require steadiness. Can’t we just talk?
Two weeks later, I got the envelope. It was heavy paper with a legal letterhead.
“A court order, of course,” I muttered to myself, pouring the last of my coffee down the drain.
And then I actually laughed out loud as I read the first page.
My own mother sued me. She had always believed that her charm could dominate any narrative… the truth was simply a story she hadn’t told yet.
Her claim was absurd. She claimed that I inherited the house through trickery. That I was not Ezra’s biological grandson. That mother cheated on my father when they were married. She’d been with another man.
And I was the result.
As a result, she contended that the house should legally belong to Marianne, Ezra’s only true biological descendant.
I sat there, the paper quivering slightly in my grip, not from fear, but from wrath. Not a sh0ck…
Just a deep, stinging insult.
They thought this would work. They thought they had the upper hand.
But what they didn’t know… what they couldn’t have even imagined, was that Grandpa Ezra had known the truth all along. And he had made sure I would never have to prove my worth to anyone ever again.
The courtroom smelled like old carpet and stale coffee, giving the impression that time had stopped halfway between resentment and habit.
Still, I strolled in with my back straight and a USB drive in my pocket, its weight anchoring me like a stone I didn’t mind carrying.
My mother sat two rows ahead, posture impeccable, hair faultless, lipstick the exact shade of red. She appeared to be attending a brunch, not a legal hearing where she intended to disinherit her sole son.
Marianne sat alongside her, clutching a crumpled tissue, her eyes red enough to be convincing. She appeared to be attending another funeral, perhaps the one for her entitlement.
When my name was called, I stood. I did not clear my throat. I did not fidget. I just walked to the front, as if I had spent my entire life preparing for this moment.
“I have evidence,” I stated clearly, my voice steady.
The judge nodded, and I provided the USB to the clerk, who plugged it in. The screen behind the bench came to life, albeit blurry at first.
Then there he was.
=Grandpa Ezra.
He sat in his favorite chair, the blue one near the front window, the floor beside him dappled with sunlight like spilled honey. The camera trembled slightly, possibly due to the timer I helped him set up, but the frame ultimately steadied.
“Hi kiddo,” he said, smiling the way he always did whenever I came over. “If you’re watching this, it means your mother is trying to steal the house from you. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
