“Mom always promised me that this house would be mine one day,” I said while struggling to keep my voice steady. “Your mother told you many things to make you feel significant, but the reality is that assets belong to those capable of managing them,” he countered.
“I want to see the legal will,” I demanded while my hands began to tremble with rage. “You will see exactly what you are entitled to see when the formal reading occurs on Monday,” he said while walking toward the door.
“Please, Dad, I have nowhere else to go on such short notice,” I pleaded while hating the desperation in my own voice. “You have friends and credit cards, so I suggest you find another place to meet your end because I am finished being your safety net,” he said with a finality that shattered the air.
I packed the remainder of my belongings while he sat in the living room and watched a financial news broadcast as if nothing had happened. He did not offer to help me carry a single box to my car, nor did he offer a word of apology for the cruelty he was displaying.
I found a small flash drive taped to the underside of my desk drawer, which was something my mother had instructed me to look for years ago. I slipped it into my pocket and carried the last of my things past the man who had been my father, but who now felt like a complete stranger.
As I walked onto the porch, I heard the heavy sound of the deadbolt sliding into place behind me. I sat in my car for ten minutes while the reality of being homeless and motherless settled into my bones with a heavy weight.
I eventually drove to the apartment of my best friend, Skylar Bennett, who lived in a small unit above a local bakery. Skylar met me at the curb and helped me carry my bags up the stairs while uttering a string of colorful insults directed at my father.
“You are staying here for as long as you need, and we are going to fight this,” she said while handing me a cup of tea. “He said he filed everything and that the house belongs to him now,” I told her while staring at the mismatched furniture in her living room.
“Your mother was a brilliant strategist who wouldn’t leave you exposed to a man like Richard,” Skylar said while opening her laptop. We plugged the flash drive into her computer and found a folder titled with my name.
Inside was a video file and a digital document with instructions to contact a lawyer named Joanna Kempton immediately. “Joanna was your mother’s closest confidante for decades,” Skylar noted as I opened the first file.
It was a letter from Victoria that explained she had anticipated this exact scenario and had prepared for it. “If you are reading this, Audrey, it means your father has chosen his own interests over yours,” the letter began.
