Gone was the smug son who threatened nursing homes. This was a man who’d gambled on control and lost.
Sarah laid out the paperwork: evidence trails, witness statements, APS documentation, the real estate inquiry, the catering contract. It read like a blueprint of attempted exploitation.
I leaned forward.
“When did you decide I was more valuable to you incapacitated than independent?” I asked. “Did you ever love me as your mother, or was I always just a retirement plan?”
Brandon’s hands shook around a water glass.
“It started after Dad died,” he whispered. “He always said you were too independent. That you’d make stupid decisions. He made me promise to take care of you.”
“Taking care of me isn’t taking over my life,” I said.
“I panicked,” Brandon said, voice cracking. “When you sold the company… when you bought the house… it felt like you were wasting everything. I thought I had to guide you.”
“Guide,” I repeated softly. “By researching conservatorship.”
He flinched.
Sarah’s voice cut in like a blade. “Mr. Sterling, did any attorney confirm cognitive decline? Or were you shopping for opinions that matched your desired outcome?”
Brandon didn’t answer.
That was enough.