Grandmother Margaret sat in her high-backed velvet wing chair by the cold fireplace, her silver-tipped cane resting against her wool skirt.

My father, Richard, stood by the heavy velvet curtains, straightening the knot of his dark silk tie while checking his gold watch.

“Read it out loud to us, Lauren,” Richard said, his voice carrying the strict, clipped rhythm he used on the bench.

“Every word.”

I laid the printed copies of the text messages and the altered power of attorney form on the low mahogany coffee table between their chairs.

“Cole wasn’t just trying to cut me off financially,” I said, my voice steady despite the cold weight in my chest.