Jennifer stood, anger replacing tears. “After everything we’ve been through… after I took care of you when Dad died—”
That stung, but I didn’t let it show. “You visited me twice after your father’s funeral, Jennifer,” I said. “Twice. Both times you left with a check.”
She flinched like I’d slapped her. “I think you should go now,” I said.
At the door, she turned back, eyes glittering with something sharp. “Derek’s not going to like this.”
“I don’t care what Derek likes.”
After she left, I sat down at my table and opened my laptop. I had research to do—legal research—because if I was going to protect what Robert and I built, I needed to do more than stop writing checks.
I needed to make sure they couldn’t access what was mine. I needed to protect my future, and I needed to understand exactly what rights they thought they had to my money. The answer, I would soon discover, would change everything.
Monday morning, I sat in the office of Margaret Chen, an estate-planning attorney whose receptionist squeezed me in after I explained it was urgent. Margaret was in her fifties, sharp-eyed, with the kind of calm voice that made you feel safer just hearing it.
“Mrs. Patterson,” she said, reviewing the documents I’d brought, “this is a substantial amount of money you’ve transferred to your daughter.”
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