We sat in a semicircle: Mom in her wheelchair, me in the stiff wingback chair, and Alyssa perched on the edge of the sofa, looking like she expected to be escorted out by security.
“So,” Mr. Abernathy said, peering over his spectacles. He was a man of eighty, with eyebrows like hedgerows. He had known my father for forty years. “Let me clarify. You wish to amend the trust to include… a third beneficiary?”
“Yes, Arthur,” Mom said, her voice stronger than I’d heard it in months. “Alyssa is Robert’s daughter. She is entitled to her share.”
Mr. Abernathy looked at Alyssa. He didn’t look with kindness; he looked with the calculating gaze of a man whose job was to protect assets from interlopers.
“And we have proof of this?” he asked. “Beyond hearsay?”
I pulled the folder from my bag. “We have two independent DNA tests, Mr. Abernathy. One initiated by Alyssa, one by me. They are conclusive.”
