My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
“What is in the folder, Ashley?” I asked.
“Just some tax forms from Dad,” she said, backing toward the hallway. “I have to get to an appointment, but we will talk later.”
She slipped past me before I could ask to see the contents of her leather folder.
My mother arrived after dinner, bringing a loaf of lemon bread wrapped in foil.
She sat at the kitchen table, smoothing her floral skirt over her knees with both palms.
“Your father is trying to finalize the transition accounts, Emily,” she said, her voice sugary and high.
“He has the bank statements,” I said, setting the tea kettle on the stove.
“He needs your Social Security number to verify the secondary beneficiary forms for the estate tax filing,” she said, her fingers tracing the edge of her placemat.
She looked at me with wide, expectant eyes, her hand moving back to her skirt to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle.
“I thought the attorney already had all that information on file,” I said.
“Richard is very slow,” my mother said, her voice dropping. “We just need to make sure the family records are in order.”
