Chapter 3
Dad climbed the stairs before I could stop him.
I followed several steps behind.
My heart was pounding so loudly that I barely heard his shoes against the wood.
At the bedroom door, he stopped.
Denise was still speaking.
"I told you, he's upset."
A pause.
Then she laughed nervously.
"He'll calm down."
Dad knocked.
She turned.
The color disappeared from her face.
"I'll call you back."
She ended the call.
Dad stood in the doorway.
"Who were you talking to?"
Denise lifted her chin.
"My sister."
He looked at the phone.
"Really?"
"Yes."
He held up the photograph I'd received.
"Then explain this."
For one second, her eyes widened.
Then her expression became carefully blank.
"Where did you get that?"
Dad stepped inside.
"Did you file a property transfer using my signature?"
She stared at him.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Answer me."
"I was handling paperwork for us."
His jaw tightened.
"What paperwork?"
Denise sighed dramatically.
"Marcus, you're making this into something ugly."
I stood near the door.
My stomach twisted.
I knew that sentence.
Every time Denise hurt my feelings, she accused me of making things ugly.
Every time I asked a question, she said I was creating drama.
Now she was doing the same thing to Dad.
He didn't respond the way I expected.
Instead, he took out his phone.
"Then you'll have no problem showing me the documents."
Denise folded her arms.
"I don't have them."
"Who does?"
"My attorney."
Dad went completely still.
"Your attorney?"
She looked away.
He took a breath.
"How long have you been working with an attorney about this house?"
Denise didn't answer.
I stepped forward.
"Denise, why did you tell me I had to leave?"
She looked at me with pure irritation.
"Because you need to learn independence."
I stared at her.
"I'm independent."
She laughed.
"Living off your father?"
I felt my face burn.
I'd worked throughout college.
I had scholarships.
I paid my rent.
I wasn't rich, but I wasn't helpless.
And Denise knew that.
Dad stepped between us.
"Stop."
Then he looked at her.
"We're done discussing this without legal advice."
She opened her mouth.
He continued.
"I want copies of every document you submitted concerning this property."
Denise looked frightened.
Only for a moment.
Then she smiled.
"You should be careful what you ask for."
Dad frowned.
"What does that mean?"
She walked toward the closet.
"It means your precious daughter might not like everything you find."
My stomach dropped.
I looked at Dad.
He looked equally confused.
Denise pulled a suitcase from the top shelf.
Then began throwing clothes into it.
I stood there feeling strangely empty.
Part of me had imagined this moment for years.
Dad finally confronting her.
Denise finally facing consequences.
But watching their marriage fall apart didn't make me happy.
It made me sad.
Because I had once believed we could become a family.
I had imagined Christmas dinners.
Birthday celebrations.
Maybe even a relationship where Denise and I could laugh together.
Instead, we were standing in a bedroom arguing over my dead mother's home.
Dad touched my shoulder.
"Come downstairs."
I followed him.
He locked the photograph on my phone into a separate evidence folder.
Then he called his attorney.
Her name was Rachel Coleman.
She had helped settle Mom's estate years earlier.
When Dad explained what happened, her voice became serious.
"I need both of you in my office tomorrow."
Dad nodded.
"Of course."
She asked him not to sign anything.
Not to delete messages.
And not to confront anyone about the documents until she reviewed them.
Then she asked a question.
"Marcus, do you still have the original trust papers Jasmine signed?"
Dad hesitated.
"I think so."
My chest tightened.
Rachel continued.
"Bring everything."
After the call, Dad went into his office.
He opened a locked cabinet.
Inside were old folders.
Insurance papers.
Tax returns.
Documents from Mom's estate.
I sat beside him as he searched.
Then he stopped.
His expression changed.
"What?"
He didn't answer.
He pulled out a folder.
The label read:
JASMINE CARTER FAMILY TRUST.
I recognized Mom's handwriting.
She used to label everything in neat blue letters.
Dad opened it.
Several documents were missing.
He looked through the folder again.
Then checked another drawer.
Nothing.
I felt cold.
"Dad?"
He swallowed.
"Someone removed the original property schedule."
I stared at him.
"What does that mean?"
He took a slow breath.
"It lists the assets your mother placed in the trust."
I looked toward the hallway.
"Could Denise have taken it?"
Dad closed his eyes.
"I don't know."
For once, he didn't immediately defend her.
That frightened me more than I expected.
He sat back.
Then whispered, "I trusted her with these files."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
He stared at me.
"Because she was my wife."
I swallowed.
"She never treated me like family."
Dad's expression crumpled.
He looked down.
"I know that now."
I wanted to comfort him.
But something inside me resisted.
For years, I'd been the one expected to make peace.
The one who apologized first.
The one who swallowed hurt feelings because Dad wanted a quiet home.
This time, I needed him to understand what had happened.
"Dad, I told you."
His eyes filled.
"I know."
"I told you she was trying to push me out."
He nodded.
"I know."
"And you said I was being difficult."
He covered his face.
"I'm sorry."
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
"I needed you."
He looked at me.
"I should have protected you."
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he reached for my hand.
I hesitated.
Finally, I let him hold it.
That night, Denise left with two suitcases.
She didn't say goodbye.
She simply walked past me and opened the front door.
Before leaving, she turned toward Dad.
"You'll regret humiliating me."
He didn't answer.
She looked at me.
And smiled.
A cold, unpleasant smile.
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
"Enjoy your house while you can, Maya."
The door closed.
I stared after her.
May you like
Because she wasn't speaking like someone who had lost an argument.
She was speaking like someone who believed she'd already won.
