Chapter 3 - The Desperate Voicemails
We stepped out of the law office into the chilly midday drizzle, our minds numb from the sheer magnitude of what had just transpired. Agnes had kissed our cheeks, promised to visit us on New Year’s Day for homemade chicken soup, and departed in a private town car arranged by her attorney.
The moment Samuel took his phone off airplane mode, it practically vibrated itself off the leather console of our car. There were fourteen missed calls and eleven new voicemails, all arriving in rapid succession within the span of barely forty-five minutes.
""They already know,"" Samuel muttered grimly, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel as he placed the phone on speaker.
The first voicemail was from Janice, her tone artificially sweet and dripping with honeyed warmth. ""Sammy, darling! It’s Mom. Listen, sweetheart, your father and I were just talking about last night, and we feel just terrible about how things escalated! It was a complete misunderstanding, really! Gerald was just making an awkward holiday joke—you know how his dry humor is after two glasses of eggnog. Please bring little Fiona over tonight for pie! We have a gorgeous doll waiting for her!""
Samuel pressed to the next recording. It was Kimberly, her voice frantic, bordering on hysterical. ""Sam, pick up the damn phone! What did Grandma do?! Dad got a formal notification letter from Vance & Sterling via certified courier this morning! Why is Mr. Vance involved in family business? Did Grandma cut off the holiday trust allocations? Meline was supposed to have her equestrian camp funded this spring! Call me right now!""
Then came Gerald. The booming patriarch was no longer lecturing from the head of the dinner table. His voice was cracked with barely suppressed panic. ""Samuel. This is your father. Call me immediately. Whatever your grandmother told you today, she is not well. She has been showing signs of cognitive decline for months. You cannot let her sign legal papers without family consensus. If you have any respect for this family’s lineage, you will bring those documents straight to Elmwood Ridge so we can review them together like men.""
I looked at Samuel. ""They received the formal letter from Arthur Vance about the estate restructuring.""
""They didn't care about Fiona’s feelings for one single second,"" Samuel said, his voice heavy with bitter disappointment. ""They weren't worried about whether she cried herself to sleep last night. They only started blowing up my phone the moment the money dried up.""
""What do you want to do?"" I asked gently.
Samuel stared out at the grey Seattle skyline, taking a long, measured breath. ""I'm not answering. Not one text. Not one call. If they want to communicate, they can send an email through Arthur Vance. For eight years, Hannah, they made Fiona feel like second-best. They made you feel like an outsider who stole their favorite son. Let them sit in the dark and sweat.""
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We drove home and spent the afternoon in our modest kitchen baking sugar cookies with Fiona. For the first time in weeks, the tension in my daughter's shoulders had vanished. Flour dusted her little nose as she laughed, stamping out star-shaped cookies and decorating them with blue frosting. Watching her smile, innocent and safe, cemented my resolve. I didn't care if Janice and Gerald were family by blood; no one would ever make my child feel inferior again.
At six o'clock in the evening, a pair of headlights swept across our living room blinds. A car door slammed with violent force out on the curb. Janice and Gerald had arrived.
