I felt the room’s attention pivot toward me—pity, judgment, suspicion. The unstable daughter. I froze.
Then a glass rang sharply. Grandpa Thomas stood on the raised hearth by the fireplace. “Everyone, please,” he commanded. “Attention.” The room stilled.
“Before we cut the cake,” Grandpa said, “I have a few words.” Dad stepped forward with a nervous smile. “Dad, maybe keep this short. Myra isn’t feeling well.”
“Myra is fine,” Grandpa snapped. “Sit down, Richard.”
He scanned the room. “My son and his wife have been telling stories tonight. About family. About burden. About support.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a Manila folder. “I believe in evidence,” he said calmly. “So let’s review it.”
“Dad, this isn’t appropriate,” Mom hissed, stepping closer.
“This is exactly the place,” Grandpa replied. “Richard—who pays your mortgage?” My father went pale. “What?”
“Your mortgage.
