Relatives began to set down food and drink with the cautious movements of people trying not to draw attention. Someone murmured “Oh my God” under their breath. I heard my cousin’s chair scrape as she stood, unsure whether she should help or flee.
And in the middle of it all, something rose in my chest that wasn’t panic, wasn’t grief, wasn’t even anger.
It was a laugh so sharp I nearly choked on it.
A lawyer. To “straighten out the legal rights” to a property I owned entirely in my name, with a deed registered, a mortgage paid, insurance and taxes handled by my accounts, every document backed up in both hard copy and encrypted cloud storage.
I was the CEO of an IT startup. I’d negotiated term sheets with investors who smiled while trying to take pieces of my company. I’d sat across from attorneys who billed by the minute and spoke in carefully weaponized language. I’d learned, painfully, what real legal danger looked like.
My father’s threat was an empty gun he’d waved my whole life, and it still startled him when it didn’t make me flinch.
I nodded slowly, almost politely.
“Okay,” I said. “Call your lawyer.”