“That’s illegal,” Marina snapped.
“In New York it’s legal with one person’s consent,” I replied calmly. “And I checked.”
My mother immediately began crying.
“Claire, we were only trying to help.”
“You said you’d cut me off and call me unstable,” I reminded her.
My father tried to argue that I misunderstood.
“I didn’t,” I said.
Marina tried grabbing the document from the table. I placed my hand over it.
“Don’t.”
“So what now?” she demanded. “You’re punishing us?”
“No,” I said quietly. “I’m protecting myself.”
My father’s voice dropped threateningly.
“We can contest this.”
“You can try,” I said. “But you won’t be fighting a grieving widow. You’ll be fighting Manhattan attorneys who specialize in this.”
My mother suddenly pleaded.
“At least let Marina have one loft. She’s your sister.”
“You have six,” Marina said quickly. “Don’t be greedy.”
I almost laughed.
“My husband died today,” I said calmly. “And you started planning how to take what he left me within an hour.”
My father asked if I was cutting them off.
