The phone call came six months after George’s funeral. “Mom, we need you to sign some papers.” My stepdaughter Susan’s voice held none of the warmth I remembered from the girl I’d raised since she was nine.
When I opened the door to find her with a lawyer demanding George’s assets, my heart broke all over again. The child I’d loved as my own now saw me as an obstacle between her and an inheritance.
What happened next was poetic justice. George—bless his foresight—had put everything in my name years before. All that remained in his estate? A rusty Mustang and three thousand dollars.
The look on Susan’s face when she realized she’d alienated her family for pocket change? Priceless.
