“A version distorted by your stress, by your age, by the natural confusion that comes with aging.”
There it was again—the carefully constructed narrative. Every word chosen to paint a picture of a confused old woman, not an intelligent woman protecting what was hers.
“I’m not confused, Faith. I’m clearer-headed than I’ve been in years. And what I see clearly is that you planned to steal everything from me under the pretense of taking care of me.”
“No one was going to steal anything from you.”
Faith’s voice rose in volume. Several heads turned openly toward us.
“That house was your inheritance—for us, for your family. You sold it and kept all the money.”
And there was the truth, finally undisguised.
“It was my money, Faith—not your inheritance. Not until I die. And apparently that couldn’t wait.”
“Don’t say that. That’s horrible.”
“Horrible?”
Do you know what’s horrible? Having your own daughter spy on you, plan to declare you incompetent, and hire corrupt lawyers to strip you of everything you worked forty years to achieve. That is horrible.
Grant leaned forward, hands clasped on the table.
“Look, Dolores, let’s be practical. You sold the house—fine. But that money is too much for a person your age to manage alone. You could be scammed. You could make bad investments. You could lose everything. Let us help you manage it. We can open a joint account. I can advise you on the investments. We’ll make sure you’re secure.”
“Secure for whom? For me or for you?”
“For everyone. We’re family.”
“Family doesn’t plan to betray each other.”
