“No, Your Honor.”
“Then we’re done here. Ms. Anderson, the estate is yours to manage as your grandmother wished. I suggest you get very good locks for any property involved. Bailiff, please provide Ms. Anderson with information about filing a restraining order if she feels it’s necessary.”
The gavel came down.
In the hallway afterward, my parents tried to approach me.
Richard Morrison physically stepped between us.
“Don’t,” he said quietly to them. “Don’t say anything. Get in the car and go home.”
“But we need to explain,” Mom started.
“You’ve explained quite enough,” he said tersely. “You’ve cost my firm a major investor, subjected us to court sanctions, and possibly exposed yourselves to criminal charges. The best thing you can do right now is leave.”
“This is your fault,” Dad hissed at me. “You sabotaged us.”
“No,” I said calmly. “You sabotaged yourselves. I just refused to let you get away with it.”
“We’re your parents.”
“And she was my grandmother. The woman who believed in me when you didn’t. Who actually asked about my life, my work, my dreams. The one who told me six months before she died that she had changed her will because she discovered what you were doing with her money.”
Mom’s face crumpled. “She told you?”
“She told me everything. That’s why she made me executor. She knew I’d protect what she built. She knew you’d just spend it all like you’ve spent everything else.”
“You pulled your investment from my firm out of spite,” Richard Morrison said. It wasn’t a question.
“I pulled my investment because I couldn’t remain partnered with a firm representing people who were actively trying to steal from me. You want to call that spite? Go ahead. I call it business.”
“Your investment?” Dad said, confused. “What investment?”
Richard Morrison closed his eyes.
“Your daughter is… was our primary investor. She provided the capital for our expansion. 4.2 million dollars.”
I watched my parents process this information. Watched their expressions cycle through disbelief, shock, and something that might have been respect if it hadn’t been buried under so much resentment.
“You never told us,” Mom said finally. “About any of it. The money, the success, the investments.”
“You never asked,” I said simply. “You decided who I was eight years ago and never bothered to check if you were right. You assumed I was failing because I wasn’t working in your furniture business. You assumed I had nothing because I didn’t drive a luxury car or live in your neighborhood. You assumed I was unsophisticated because I didn’t go to your country club.”
“You could have said something,” Dad protested weakly.
“Why? So you could ask me for money? So you could tell everyone at the club that your daughter was finally successful enough to matter? No thanks. I built what I built without your help, without your approval, and without your interference. That’s exactly how I wanted it.”
I turned to Richard Morrison.
“You’ll have your capital within ten business days. I recommend using it to pay off your court sanctions and hire a better vetting process for clients. Maybe ask them for bank statements before you file petitions accusing other people of being financially unsophisticated.”
I walked away before anyone could respond.