I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5m and 6 Manhattan lofts. When I walked into the house, I overheard my parents talking. What they were saying… made my blood run cold.

Patricia opens the door. Her face shifts from calculation to warmth. In under a second, she pulls me into a hug. Lavender perfume, the same brand she’s worn my whole life.

“My poor baby,” she says. “We’re here for you now.”

The word now hits different when you’ve just heard someone plotting to strip your legal rights.

Gerald stands behind her in the hallway, hands in his pockets. He nods.

“You should stay a few days, Fay. Rest. There’s no rush to go back to the city.”

No rush because they need 72 hours.

I smile. I say, “Thanks, Dad. I think I just need to be home for a while.”

I watch his shoulders relax. Patricia squeezes my arm and guides me toward the kitchen. There’s tea on the counter, a plate of cookies from the church bake sale. Everything looks like love. Everything sounds like love.

I excuse myself to my old bedroom upstairs. Same twin bed, same faded quilt, same Columbia graduation photo tacked to the wall with a single push pin. Down the hallway, both walls are covered in Khloe’s pictures. Prom, cheerleading, sorority, formal, engagement party. 47 framed moments. My graduation photo is 4 in x 6 in and the push pin is rusting.

I lock the door. Call James Whitfield. Voicemail.