At 11:51 p.m., my mother sent the message that changed everything: I was no longer welcome. My sister added a heart, like that made the betrayal softer. So while they slept, certain they had pushed me out for good, I opened my laptop and began fixing the mistake they never saw coming.

My parents sat two rows behind the defense table. Kayla arrived late, sunglasses on her head as if the fluorescent lights might start shining with purpose. Mom avoided my eyes. Dad stared at the wood grain of the pew like it might offer an escape hatch. I felt the old ache—child-me wanting adult-them to look at me and see the obvious thing: I had not broken what I was fixing.

When Julia finished, the judge leaned back. “You know,” he said to no one in particular, “I see a lot of families here. Most days I wish I didn’t. Some days I’m glad I do.” He signed the order restoring the codicil and referring the forgery for criminal review. His pen scratched the paper like a zipper closing. Done.

Outside, Julia hugged me with her file still in her hand. “Go home,” she said. “Eat something that drips. Then throw the napkin away.”

I did. A burger in a paper wrapper that bled through. I threw the napkin away and didn’t feel bad about waste. Grief and grease both have their own rites.