The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest, delivered with the kind of theatrical cruelty that only comes from someone who’s been rehearsing their moment of triumph. “My father-in-law left us seven houses in Miami Beach.”
Kinsley’s voice rang through the law office like a victory bell, her manicured hands clutching the deed papers like trophies. “Ella, oh, what a shame.
You only got the old warehouse in Mississippi.”
The applause started immediately.
Cousins I barely remembered. Distant relatives who’d crawled out of the woodwork the moment James’ obituary hit the papers.
Uncle Robert, who’d borrowed money from James for 30 years without ever paying it back. All of them clapping like Kinsley had just announced she’d won the lottery—which, in their minds, she had.
I sat in the leather chair beside the mahogany conference table, my weathered hands folded in my lap, watching my former daughter-in-law perform her victory dance with the precision of someone who’d been planning this moment for years.
At 35, Kinsley moved through the world like someone who’d never been denied anything she wanted. Her blonde hair perfectly styled, her designer dress probably costing more than most people’s monthly rent. “Seven mansions,” she continued, holding up her phone to take a selfie with the deed papers.
“Waterfront properties, pool access, yacht slips.
Can you even believe it?”
More applause, more congratulations, more validation for the woman who’d spent the last four years treating me like an inconvenient relative who’d overstayed her welcome at every family gathering. The lawyer, Mr.
Henderson, cleared his throat diplomatically. “Mrs.
Monroe, if we could proceed with the rest of the will reading.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Kinsley said, not bothering to lower her voice or moderate her glee.
“I’m sorry, Ella. I didn’t mean to get so excited about our inheritance. I know this must be difficult for you.”
Difficult.
As if watching your ex-husband’s family celebrate your apparent poverty was merely an inconvenience rather than a public humiliation.
I looked across the table at my son Dean, 40 years old and sitting there like a statue carved from embarrassment and cowardice. His dark hair, so much like his father’s, was perfectly styled.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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