It would have been impressive if it weren’t so grotesque.

My father arrived leaning on a cane he had never needed and did not need now, aging himself a decade for the judge.

My mother clutched a fistful of tissues and kept them working.

Chloe, who had been advised by someone to tone it down, wore no jewelry at all and had arranged her face into wounded innocence.

Their attorney rose and told the court a story: that my grandfather, in his final illness, had been confused and frightened and emotionally dependent on me, the caregiver, and that I had used that dependence to poison him against his own loving family and seize control of his estate.

It was, I had to admit, the only argument available to them, and it was not a bad one.