Kyle kept smirking after he said it too.
Like he’d finally said the thing everybody else was thinking.
Nobody at the table looked at me. My aunt just kept pushing beans around her plate. His wife took another sip of wine like the conversation was over now.
I let him talk.
That seemed to make him even louder.
He started going on about “sacrifice” and “handling pressure” and how exhausting it was managing the trust alone. Kept saying Dad “would’ve wanted somebody decisive.”
Then he laughed again and pointed his beer at me.
“Funny how people suddenly care once there’s property involved.”
I remember hearing my cousin suck in a breath beside me.
But honestly, by then, I wasn’t even angry anymore.
I set my glass down and asked him one question.
“Did you ever actually read Dad’s last amendment?”
The smile disappeared off his face so fast it honestly startled me.
Not because of what I said.
Because he realized immediately there was one.
Nobody spoke.
Kyle tried covering it fast. Started talking about lawyers and paperwork and “everything already being finalized,” but now he sounded rushed instead of confident.
My aunt looked up first.
“What amendment?”
Kyle wouldn’t look at anybody anymore.
And that’s when I finally understood something that had been bothering me for months.
He’d made himself sole trustee so fast because he thought nobody else had seen the documents yet.
Unfortunately for him, Dad mailed copies before he died.
Not to me.
To everybody at that table.
My uncle stood up first asking where his copy was.
Then my aunt said hers was still in her desk drawer.
Kyle’s wife slowly lowered her wine glass and looked at him like she was seeing a stranger.
And for the first time all night, Kyle stopped talking.