“My daughter is dead,” she said. “She left behind three babies and a record of fear I failed to see while she was alive. The man who was supposed to protect her moved his mistress into her home before the funeral flowers wilted. He forged papers. He stole money. He tried to erase her from the walls of her own house.”
Her voice stayed steady.
“I am not here because I cannot let go. I am here because my daughter asked me to fight for her children. And because if I do not, the only person in this room who prepared for their future will have died for nothing.”
When Dorothy stepped down, she saw it at last—the first crack in Grant’s certainty.
The judge denied the restraining order.
She granted Dorothy temporary supervised visitation and ordered further review.
Outside the courthouse, Fletch cornered Grant near the side steps.
“You broke her,” he said in a low voice. “And now you’re trying to inherit the ruins.”
Grant adjusted his cuff links. “Your sister was unwell.”
Fletch took one step forward.
Dorothy caught his arm with a grip that still carried the authority of his childhood.
“Not here,” she said.
Fletch breathed once, twice, and stepped back.
Grant walked away.