Chapter 3 - Nothing Left to Offer
Judge Roth reviewed the files through narrow glasses while I sat beside Leo, feeling every breath get smaller. She had a reputation in Ashford County for being fair and impossible to charm. I prayed both were true.
“Mrs. Cole,” she said at last, looking directly at me, “do you have any further evidence before this court considers a ruling regarding the estate’s real property?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
I had photographs of Beatrice with Leo in the kitchen. Medication logs. Hospital bills. Receipts for roof repairs, plumbing work, and property taxes I had paid after Matthew died. Letters from neighbors saying Beatrice wanted us there. But none of it proved what the court needed most: that Beatrice intended the house to belong to me and Leo.
Her formal will was old. Written before Matthew got sick. Before his accident. Before Beatrice’s health failed. Before I became the person who stayed.
Warren leaned back like a man already seeing the front door keys in his hand. His watch flashed beneath the courtroom lights. He had Matthew’s eyes, and that was the cruelest part. Same brown. Same shape. None of the kindness.
Richard Harlow stood. “Your Honor, sympathy cannot rewrite testamentary instruments.”
I looked down at my hands. My knuckles had gone white.
In my mind, I saw Leo’s drawings coming off the refrigerator. The yellow sofa hauled away. Beatrice’s teacups boxed up. Matthew’s old baseball glove removed from the closet shelf. Our life reduced to “estate property.”
Then Leo’s chair scraped against the wood floor.
At first, I thought he was tired.
Then he stood.
“No one is taking my mother’s house,” he said.
Warren gave a short laugh under his breath.
May you like
Judge Roth lifted one hand.
The laugh died immediately.
