Victoria’s attorney cross-examined aggressively.
He asked about my father’s grief after my mother died, about his stress, about moments he’d forgotten details.
My father answered calmly. “Grief made me vulnerable,” he said. “It didn’t make me stupid.”
There was a ripple in the courtroom—a quiet, collective recognition that this wasn’t a confused old man being controlled. This was a man finally refusing to be rewritten.
Then it was my turn.
I took the stand and felt the eyes of the jury land on me, assessing, deciding whether I was credible.
The prosecutor guided me through my relationship with Victoria, the pattern of manipulation, the beach house demand, the discovery of the hidden letter.
When I described finding my mother’s letter locked in a drawer Victoria had changed the key for, the courtroom shifted. Even people who didn’t care about money understood that kind of cruelty.
The prosecutor asked, “How did it feel to find that letter?”
I swallowed. “Like she stole my mother twice,” I said quietly. “Once through death, and once through hiding her words.”
Victoria’s attorney tried to rattle me.