Chapter 7
The lawsuit dragged on.
Months passed.
I threw myself into the company.
Robert taught me everything. How to read a balance sheet. How to negotiate a lease. How to manage people.
I visited the properties. I talked to tenants. I learned about the coffee shops, the apartment complexes, the office buildings.
And I found that I was good at it.
Better than good.
I understood people. I understood what they needed. After four years of caring for Grandpa, I had patience. I had empathy. I had the ability to listen.
Tenants started asking for me by name.
Employees told me things they had never told the previous management.
The company started to change.
We raised wages for the lowest-paid workers. We renovated the apartment complexes that needed it. We started a scholarship program for the children of employees.
Robert watched it all with a smile.
"Your grandfather would be proud," he said.
But my family's lawsuit hung over everything.
They were everywhere.
They gave interviews to local newspapers. They posted on social media. They started a GoFundMe page—"Help the Lawson family fight against greedy granddaughter who stole their inheritance."
People believed them.
I got hate mail. Strangers called me names on the street. Someone even threw a rock through the window of the cabin.
Sarah wanted to hire security.
I refused.
"I'm not going to live in fear," I said.
But it was hard.
Every time I saw their faces in the news, every time I read another lie, I felt that old familiar pain. The pain of not being loved. The pain of being misunderstood.
Then came the deposition.
My mother was the first to testify.
She sat across from me in the conference room, dressed in black, looking like a grieving widow instead of a woman who had laughed at her own daughter in the rain.
She told lie after lie.
She said I had been obsessed with Grandpa's money. That I had moved in with him only to get close to his fortune. That I had turned him against the rest of the family.
"She wouldn't let us visit," my mother said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "Every time we tried to see him, she'd make up an excuse. He was tired. He was sleeping. He didn't feel well. We went months without seeing him."
Mr. Sterling asked her a simple question.
"Can you provide any records of these attempted visits?" he said. "Phone records? Text messages? Emails? Anything?"
My mother hesitated.
"We... we mostly called on the landline," she said.
"The landline records don't show many calls from your number," Mr. Sterling said. "In fact, during the last year of your father-in-law's life, you called exactly seven times. Three of those calls were to ask for money."
My mother's face turned red.
"That's not true!" she said. "We visited in person! All the time!"
"Do you have photographs of these visits?" Mr. Sterling asked. "Receipts? Any proof at all?"
She had nothing.
Chloe was next.
She cried through most of her testimony.
"Maya was always jealous of me," she said. "Because I was prettier. Because Mom and Dad loved me more. She wanted what I had. So she stole Grandpa. She turned him against us."
Mr. Sterling asked her about the will reading.
"Is it true that you laughed when your sister was left one dollar?"
Chloe looked at me, then looked away.
"I was... emotional," she said. "It was a stressful day."
"Is it true that you said you might hire her as your maid?"
She didn't answer.
My father was last.
He was calm. Collected. Almost believable.
"I don't think Maya is a bad person," he said. "I think she was... influenced. By the situation. By being alone with my father for so long. She started to believe that she was the only one who cared. And that made her bitter. Angry. She wanted to punish us."
Mr. Sterling asked him about the day I was thrown out of the house.
"Is it true that you locked the door while your daughter was standing outside in the rain?"
My father's face tightened.
"I was following my wife's orders," he said.
"And your daughter's belongings—were they thrown into the street?"
He looked at his hands.
"Yes," he said quietly.
Then it was my turn.
I told the truth.
I told them about quitting my job. About spending my savings. About turning down promotions. About selling my car.
I told them about the nights I sat up with Grandpa, listening to him struggle to breathe. About the days I cleaned his wounds and changed his clothes and fed him when he couldn't feed himself.
I told them about the visits from my family—how they came only when they wanted something. How they would ask for money, for signatures, for favors, and then leave.
I told them about Grandpa's last words. About the letter. About the video.
And when I was done, there was silence in the room.
Even my family's lawyer looked uncomfortable.
The deposition ended.
We were waiting for the judge's decision.
Sarah found me in the hallway.
"You were amazing," she said.
I felt drained.
"Do you think they'll believe me?" I asked.
"I know they will," she said.
That night, I went to the cabin.
I sat on the porch and looked out at the lake.
The stars were bright.
I thought about Grandpa.
I thought about all the things he had taught me.
And I realized something.
I didn't need the judge to believe me.
I didn't need the public to believe me.
I didn't even need my family to believe me.
I knew the truth.
May you like
Grandpa knew the truth.
And that was enough.
