I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5m and 6 Manhattan lofts. When I walked into the house, I overheard my parents talking. What they were saying… made my blood run cold.

Helen is 62, taller than Patricia, broader shoulders, the kind of face that doesn’t bother with makeup. She’s wearing a corduroy jacket and carrying a manila folder.

“Eight years of silence,” she says, “and your mother still hasn’t changed her act.”

The folder contains copies of everything from the guardianship battle over their mother, Dorothy, a petition Patricia filed claiming Dorothy was a danger to herself, letters from Patricia’s attorney demanding control of the house, and Helen’s counter filing, a doctor’s report confirming Dorothy was cognitively sound enough to live independently.

“She tried it with our mother, Fa. Same doctor trick, same isolation, same story to the neighbors. Poor Dorothy. She’s confused. She wanders. She needs help.”

Helen taps the folder.

“I stopped her then. You’re stopping her now.”

I stare at the documents. The same language, the same strategy, separated by 8 years and one generation. Patricia didn’t invent a new plan for me. She dusted off the old one.

“I’ll be at the gala,” Helen says. “I’ll sit in the back. I won’t say a word until it’s time.”

I nod. My throat is tight.