Her face hardened, but she had no answer.
Mark stayed on the phone, calm as always. “Tom, I’ll prepare everything first thing in the morning. For tonight, if they refuse to leave, call the police.”
Ethan stared at the phone like it had betrayed him.
“The police?” he said. “On your own son?”
I looked at him and felt the weight of every baseball game, every school project, every late-night fever, every sacrifice Linda and I had made so he could grow up safe.
“You stopped acting like my son when you locked your mother outside,” I said.
Something broke across his face, but pride kept him standing.
He and Ashley left twenty minutes later. Ethan slammed the door hard enough to rattle the picture frames.
Linda sat at the kitchen table and cried quietly. I made her tea, set her medication beside it, and apologized.
She shook her head. “You didn’t do it.”
“No,” I said. “But I didn’t see it soon enough.”
The next weeks were ugly. Ethan called, texted, and accused us of destroying his future. Ashley posted vague messages online about “greedy older generations.” Then the attorney’s letters arrived, the company board was notified, the locks were officially changed, and the trust was rewritten.
