Ethan was my son. I had taught him to ride a bike in the driveway. I had stayed awake all night when he broke his arm in fifth grade. I had paid off his student loans after his first business failed because he told me he only needed one clean start.
Marissa was my daughter. She had held my hand at her mother’s funeral and promised that we would look after each other. I bought her first car. I paid for her divorce lawyer. I watched her children whenever she said she needed room to breathe.
And now they were speaking about me like I was an obstacle.
Not a father.
Not a human being.
An obstacle.
I did not go straight home. I drove to my attorney’s office in Sacramento. His name was David Walsh, and he had been my friend long before he ever handled my estate papers.
When he saw my face, he shut his office door.
“What happened?”
I set the flash drive on his desk. “Listen.”
He played the recording once. Then he played it again, taking notes the second time through. By the end, his jaw had tightened.
“William,” he said carefully, “did you recently agree to transfer the lake house?”
“I was going to sign the papers next week.”
“To Ethan?”
“To Ethan and Marissa equally. They said it would avoid probate complications.”
David leaned back, staring at me over the rims of his glasses.
“That is not how I drafted your estate plan.”
“I know.”
“Who gave you the new paperwork?”
