I drove away and parked behind a pharmacy where I sobbed until my chest hurt, but then I called a probate attorney named Monica Thorne.
Monica listened to my story without interrupting and informed me that Russell and his father were either remarkably arrogant or remarkably stupid.
She discovered that no permits had been issued and no licensed contractors had been used for the demolition of the house.
A neighbor’s security camera had captured footage of Russell in work gloves giving directions while an excavator clawed through my parents’ roof.
“I would hand you the whole estate if it helps bury him,” my brother told me on the phone with a voice thick with protective rage.
Monica sent a formal demand for compensation and an apology, but Russell called me a day later to snap at me about the legal nonsense I was causing.
He still thought the argument was about access to money and told me to stop being emotional so we could do this the easy way.
“The easy way was you not demolishing my mother’s home behind my back,” I replied before hanging up the phone on him.