Mr. Peterson cleared his throat.
“There’s more. George included a personal letter to be read at this time.”
He pulled out an envelope and began to read.
“If this letter is being read, then I am no longer with you. To my dear Ellen, my partner in everything, thank you for 45 years of love and support. You were always the strength behind my success, even when others didn’t see it.
“To my son, Thomas, I love you deeply. I’ve watched with concern as you’ve allowed others to influence your judgment and come between you and your mother. I hope you’ll reflect on what truly matters in life.
“To Violet, I’ve observed your treatment of Ellen over the years. Your attempts to isolate her, to diminish her role in our family, and recently your suggestions that she is no longer capable of making her own decisions. These actions have not gone unnoticed.
“I’ve structured my will to protect Ellen from further manipulation. The house belongs to her alone. The business will provide her with income and purpose. And Thomas, your inheritance is structured to ensure that it remains yours, protected from outside influence.”
Violet’s face had turned ashen.
She looked at me with undisguised hatred.
“You did this,” she hissed. “You manipulated a dying man.”
I met her gaze steadily.
“George made his own decisions, Violet. He always did.”
“There’s one final provision,” Mr. Peterson interjected, looking uncomfortable. “George stipulated that if Thomas and Violet continue to reside in the Montgomery home, they must pay fair market rent to Ellen, otherwise they must vacate the property within 30 days.”
Violet stood up so abruptly that her chair nearly toppled backward.
“This is outrageous. We’ll contest it.”
Mr. Peterson shook his head.
“I advised George extensively on making this will contest proof. He documented Violet’s behavior over the past several years, including recordings of conversations where she discussed plans to have Ellen declared incompetent after his death.”
Violet’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
Thomas stared at her, shock evident on his face.
“He recorded conversations?” Thomas finally asked, his voice barely audible.
“George was very thorough,” Mr. Peterson confirmed. “He wanted to ensure his wishes would be respected.”
I sat quietly, feeling no joy in Violet’s humiliation.
This wasn’t about revenge.
It was about protection, exactly as George had intended.
“I think we should go,” Thomas said to Violet, standing up.
He looked at me, confusion and hurt in his eyes.
“Mom, I—I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything right now,” I told him gently. “Take some time to process everything.”
As they left, Martha moved to sit beside me.
“Well,” she said softly. “George always did think of everything.”
I nodded, tears finally filling my eyes.
Even in death, George had found a way to shield me from Violet’s cruelty. His last act of love was to ensure I wouldn’t be cast aside, forgotten in my own family.
“He certainly did,” I whispered, clutching the copy of the will Mr. Peterson had handed me.
The paper felt solid and reassuring in my hands, tangible proof that George had seen everything, understood everything, and acted to protect what we had built together.
I just wondered what would happen when I returned home to a house where I was now indisputably the only one with the right to decide who belonged there.
I arrived home to a house in disarray.
Violet had apparently wasted no time after the will reading. Drawers hung open, closets had been rifled through, and several of my favorite decorative pieces were missing.
It looked like she’d been searching for something. Or perhaps this was just her way of lashing out.
I sighed heavily, too emotionally drained to feel angry.
Martha had offered to come home with me, but I’d declined. I needed time alone to process everything that had happened.
I was making tea when I heard the front door slam.
Heavy footsteps approached the kitchen and Thomas appeared in the doorway, his face flushed with anger.
“How could you do this to me?” he demanded without preamble.
I set down my teacup.
“Do what exactly?”
“Turn Dad against me. Against Violet. Make him think we were trying to—”