Mr. Grant continued, unhurried. “The trust allowed you to use the building for your business as long as you remained in compliance with the terms.”
My father’s voice dropped further. “What terms?”
“Your mother was never to be pressured, deceived, or financially exploited.”
Aunt Monica whispered, “Oh my God,” her hand rising slowly to cover her mouth.
Mr. Grant nodded once. “Exactly.”
My father stared at the floor. I remembered something Grandma had told me weeks earlier, sitting at that same kitchen table, about how Grandpa had built that company from literally nothing, working alongside her for forty years, the two of them a real partnership in every sense the word could carry.
After he died, my father took over running things, and everyone, myself included, had simply assumed he owned everything outright, the natural, unremarkable transfer of a family business from father to son. Apparently that assumption had never once been accurate.
