Mr. Grant turned another page. “There is something else.”
My father’s expression shifted. “What?”
“Your mother didn’t just lose thirty thousand dollars.” He removed a copy of the family trust document, holding it up briefly before setting it on the suitcase. “She nearly lost control of the building where your company operates.”
Silence again, heavier this time.
My father stared at the document. “What are you talking about?”
Mr. Grant pointed to a paragraph near the top. “Your father placed this property into Hazel’s trust before he died.”
My father shook his head. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve operated there for twelve years.”
“Operating a property doesn’t make you the owner.”
My father looked at me then, and I saw something in his face I had genuinely never seen there before, not once in twenty-six years. Fear. Not anger, not embarrassment, both of which I’d seen plenty of times growing up. Real fear.
