Harold’s jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he might try to block the door.

But Margaret Coleman had been a board member for thirty-two years. Her authority in that room outstripped his.

“Fine,” my father said, his voice cold as ice. “Let her speak. We’ll see how long it takes before she embarrasses herself.”

The boardroom was smaller than I’d imagined. An oval table of polished walnut. Twelve board members.

A portrait of Grandma Genevieve on the far wall—the same photo from 1987, her chin lifted, her eyes fixed on the room as if she were still chairing it.

Josephine took a seat near my father—not a board member yet, but positioned as the heir apparent.