Six weeks later, the scar on my chest had faded to a thin pink line. Peter flew back to the city for the reading of the will. The lawyer scheduled it for a Friday afternoon and insisted my parents attend.
The conference room overlooked downtown. I sat with Peter on one side of the table; my parents and Madison sat opposite. My mother’s gaze skipped over me. Madison scrolled through her phone until the attorney cleared his throat.
Attorney Blake opened a folder. After the formal language, he read the key clause: Grandpa left his condo, savings, and remaining investments to “my granddaughter Claire Reynolds,” and “intentionally makes no provision” for Robert, Elaine, or Madison Reynolds “as they have repeatedly chosen status over family.”
“What?” my mother snapped. “Michael adored us. This is ridiculous.”
Blake slid copies of the will and Grandpa’s letter across the table. “He wrote this after learning about the college-fund transfers and your response to Claire’s surgery,” Blake said. “He confirmed both with the bank and the hospital.”
