I put on a plain gray suit, and I took a single leather folder, and I drove to the house that was no longer legally theirs to list.

Chloe was sitting in our grandfather’s armchair when I came in, wearing the diamond necklace she believed she’d inherited, arranged like a queen granting an audience.

“You have ten minutes,” my father said, not rising.

“Then I’ll have you removed.” I did not sit.

I opened the folder and placed one sheet of paper on the table in front of them, face up, and let them read it.

It was a temporary restraining order, signed by a judge that morning, blocking the sale of the house.