PART 2
I stared at her.
“Why?”
She looked embarrassed.
“Someone at the front desk heard them say the parking fees were getting too expensive. They said they’d check on you later.”
For a moment, I thought I’d misunderstood.
“Parking?”
The nurse tried to soften it.
“I’m sure they just needed food or fresh air. They’ll probably be back soon.”
But we both knew she was just making excuses.
I looked down at the highlighted document shaking in my hands. The legal text read: Petition for Emergency Conservatorship and Temporary Power of Attorney over Genevieve Sterling.
The signatures at the bottom belonged to Ethan, Victoria, and Julian.
The petition had been filed with the probate court at 9:15 a.m. — while I was on the operating table, fully under anesthesia.
“They needed me unconscious,” I whispered, the weight of it crushing down on my chest. “They didn’t leave because of the parking. They left because the clerk’s office opened at ten, and they needed to file the signed petition before I woke up and could object.”
Harrison leaned forward, his face grim. “They filed a sworn affidavit claiming you were suffering severe cognitive decline and were incompetent to manage your estate. They cited the money you gave them — the loans you extended to help them — as evidence of ‘erratic, uninhibited financial squandering.'”
A cold, sharp clarity cut through the last of the anesthesia fog.
For ten years I’d drained my savings — Ethan’s accounting software, Victoria’s high-interest debts, Julian’s car loans. I’d sacrificed my own financial security out of love, and they’d turned every act of it into a paper trail meant to declare me senile.
“They wanted control of the family home,” I said quietly, my tears drying as the pain hardened into something colder. “The land my late husband left me. A developer offered Ethan two million dollars for it last month, but I told him no. I wanted to leave it to my grandchildren.”
“And if they’re granted emergency conservatorship today,” Harrison added, “they can override your refusal and push the deed transfer through by sunset.”
I looked at him. “How do we stop them?”
A faint, dangerous smile crossed Harrison’s face. He pulled out his phone and made one call.
“Raymond,” he said into the line. “Bring the team to Room 412. We’re moving now.”
