Chapter 8

My sister-in-law suddenly stood up.

"Enough!" She pointed at the attorney. "What's the point of reading all this? The first part of the will clearly states that the house goes to Arthur and the savings go to Beatrice. It's already signed. Why are you reading this now?" She turned to glare at me. "You set this up, didn't you? You colluded with the attorney?"

I didn't say a word.

Diana marched up to me, looking down with a condescending sneer. "Elias, we all know you took care of Pops for three years, but you did that voluntarily. No one forced you." She glanced around the room. "You lived off Pops and stayed in this house for three years. Now that he's gone, what more do you want?"

Uncle Horace nodded in agreement. "Diana has a point."

Uncle Albert rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "This will is indeed Richard's intention."

Great-Aunt Clara sighed, looking as though she wanted to speak up for me before thinking better of it.

The relatives exchanged complex glances, their eyes sweeping back and forth over me. A few offered looks of sympathy, but the unspoken consensus was clear:

"Let it go."

"Stop making a fuss."

"A will is a will."

Diana grew more agitated as she spoke. "Do you think you deserve a share of the inheritance just because you took care of Pops for three years? That was your duty! Who asked you to be his son? Who asked you to stay unmarried and childless? If you didn't take care of him, who would have?"

Her voice grew sharper. "Arthur is out there making money, supporting an entire family. Do you think that's easy? The seventy-two thousand he gave Pops was squeezed out of his own tight budget!" She pointed a finger right at my face. "What right do you have to fight with us?"

I looked at her, staring in silence for five seconds.

Then, I smiled.

My sister-in-law froze for a moment. "What are you smiling at?"

"I'm smiling at you," I said. "You're too impatient."

I turned to the attorney. "Mr. Vance, please continue."

The attorney pushed up his glasses. "Alright." He picked up the piece of paper. "Page four, part two."

He read aloud: "'The two commercial properties located at No. 18 and No. 22 Liberty Avenue, Midtown District—'"

Arthur's expression shifted drastically. "What?"

The attorney continued: "'—were, in June 2022, legally transferred to my youngest son, Elias.'"

The living room fell quiet. Dead quiet.

"'The transfer procedures were handled by myself in person, and are entirely legal and valid. The above commercial properties do not belong to the estate and are not included in the distribution of this will.'"

I watched Arthur's face drain of color, turning from pale to completely ashen. Diana's mouth hung open, unable to utter a single word.

Liberty Avenue. The most lucrative commercial street in the Midtown District.

Two prime commercial properties. One was 72 square meters, the other 56 square meters.

I knew their market value perfectly well, because when the transfer happened, I had signed the appraisal report. Combined, they were worth 5.2 million.

In the third month after his stroke, Pops had me push his wheelchair to the Municipal Records Bureau. His speech was still very slurred that day, but he pointed at the words on the document, tapping them deliberately, one by one.

The official asked him, "Mr. Montgomery, do you confirm that you want to transfer these two properties to Elias?"

Pops nodded. He nodded three times, with absolute conviction.

The official asked again, "Are you making this decision voluntarily and in a clear state of mind?"

Pops opened his mouth. With immense effort, he managed to force out a single sentence.

"He... is the only one... who stayed."

That day, as I pushed his wheelchair home, he held my hand. His fingers gripped mine tightly. He was crying, tears flowing down the deep wrinkles of his face. He couldn't speak.

But I understood.

I had always understood.