My sister blasted “INFERTILE, DIVORCED, FAILURE” across a 10-foot screen at her wedding while 200 guests laughed—my mother sipped wine, my father called it “just a joke.”

Harold’s face goes rigid. Not the public rigidity of composure. The private kind. The kind I remember from the kitchen table when I was 18 and he slid that document across to me.

Eleanor looks at the paper, then at Harold.

“You were going to build on land that belongs to your estranged daughter without her consent, without telling us.”

“She was supposed to sign it over years ago.”

“I was 18. You tried to force me.”

I fold the deed and put it back in my pocket.

“I said no. You threw me out. And you’ve been telling people the land was yours ever since.”

Richard Whitmore stands for the first time. He buttons his jacket, the kind of small, deliberate motion men make when they’re about to leave permanently.

Eleanor meets Harold’s eyes one final time.

“Mr. Lindon, I think we’re done here.”

Harold turns to me. His voice drops to something raw and small.

“You ungrateful—”

Garrett steps forward.

“Enough.”

His voice is sharp and final.

“That’s enough, Mr. Lindon.”