My son froze my cards so I couldn’t even buy groceries. He thinks he controls our $42 million empire—but one call from the bank made me realize he has no idea what I’m about to do. First my credit card declined. Then my debit.

I looked at her and suddenly understood that this had not begun that morning. This had been building. Every time she had corrected me over a small detail at dinner. Every time she had said, “Nora, didn’t we already talk about that?” in front of other people. Every time she had looked at Desmond after I repeated a story from Warren’s early days and made that tiny, almost invisible expression of patient concern. They had been laying groundwork.

“I am seventy-three,” I said. “Not senile.”

Desmond’s eyes did not move. “You forget things. You miss appointments. You repeat yourself.”

“Your father repeated himself constantly,” I said. “Especially after sixty.”

“My father is dead.”

The words were blunt, almost irritated, and I felt them like a slap. Warren’s dead. As if death had stripped his legacy of all authority. As if the business that bore our name was now just a pile of assets waiting to be cut apart and consumed.

Karen took over, as she often did when charm had to give way to precision. “Warren’s legacy is a business, not a museum exhibit. The market is changing. Consolidation is smart. We’re thinking about the children. About long-term security.”