He told me my sister had screamed at Dad for almost an hour because he wouldn’t “fix the will the right way.” According to the neighbor, my father kept saying, “I already took care of both my kids,” and my sister kept yelling that I’d “already gotten enough” because I’d lived with him after Mom died.
I just sat there staring at this man on my porch holding a loaf of banana bread like he regretted knocking at all.
The part that really got me was this: Dad had never once said I owed him for helping him. Not once. Half those dialysis mornings he’d apologize for “being a burden” while I was trying to get his socks on.
I called the lawyer the next morning and asked one question: when exactly was the will changed?
Three days before Dad died.
Dad was heavily medicated by then. Barely signing his own checks straight. The lawyer got real quiet after that and finally admitted my sister had arranged the appointment privately and brought the paperwork already prepared.
Things moved fast after that. My cousin Earl drove down from Tennessee and told the lawyer he’d testify Dad was confused that entire week. The neighbor agreed too.
My sister stopped answering my calls once she realized I’d hired my own attorney.
We ended up settling out of court six months later. I got half the house, Dad’s truck, and the money she’d pulled from his account the week he died had to be paid back.
Last thing she ever texted me was, “I hope you’re happy now.”
I didn’t answer.
I changed the locks on Dad’s house that same afternoon.