Her attorney, Mr. Vance, pulled a document from a cream-colored folder. He slid it across the mahogany table toward me.

“Your mother executed a new will three days before her passing,” Mr. Vance said. “This document names Brenda as the sole executor and the sole beneficiary of the estate, including the real property on Mound Road.”

I stared at the paper. At the bottom, there was a signature that looked like a bird’s nest of shaky lines. It didn’t look like Mom’s beautiful cursive. It looked like someone had guided a limp hand across the page.

“This is a lie,” I whispered. “Mom was in hospice care at home three days before she died. She was on heavy doses of morphine. She didn’t even know what day of the week it was.”

“Mom wanted me to have the house, Ellen,” Brenda said, finally looking up. Her eyes were cold, completely unbothered. “I was the one who was there every single afternoon while you were working your little job. I earned this. You have your own house. You don’t need hers.”

“You changed the locks before we even buried her!” I shouted, my voice echoing in the small office. “You planned this!”

Mr. Vance cleared his throat. “The document is notarized, Mrs. Davis. If you wish to contest it, you will need to file a formal petition in probate court. But I assure you, everything is legally binding.”

We didn’t talk at the funeral. Brenda sat on the opposite side of the aisle, wearing a black designer coat I knew she couldn’t afford, staring straight ahead. She didn’t cry once. When people came up to offer condolences, she smiled tightly and thanked them for coming. I sat there with my husband, holding a crumpled tissue, feeling a strange, dark distance growing between my sister and me.

Three weeks later, we finally had our appointment at the probate office. Mom’s original will, the one she had drafted back in 1998, was clear. Everything was to be split 50/50. It was the only fair way, the way Mom always insisted things should be.

But when I walked into the attorney’s office, Brenda was already sitting there. She had her attorney with her, a tall man in a sharp grey suit.

“There’s been a change, Ellen,” Brenda said, her voice completely calm. She didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes on her lawyer’s leather briefcase.

“What do you mean?” I asked, taking a seat across from her. My stomach did a slow, nauseating flip.

Her attorney, Mr. Vance, pulled a document from a cream-colored folder. He slid it across the mahogany table toward me.

“Your mother executed a new will three days before her passing,” Mr. Vance said. “This document names Brenda as the sole executor and the sole beneficiary of the estate, including the real property on Mound Road.”

I stared at the paper. At the bottom, there was a signature that looked like a bird’s nest of shaky lines. It didn’t look like Mom’s beautiful cursive. It looked like someone had guided a limp hand across the page.

“This is a lie,” I whispered. “Mom was in hospice care at home three days before she died. She was on heavy doses of morphine. She didn’t even know what day of the week it was.”

“Mom wanted me to have the house, Ellen,” Brenda said, finally looking up. Her eyes were cold, completely unbothered. “I was the one who was there every single afternoon while you were working your little job. I earned this. You have your own house. You don’t need hers.”

“You changed the locks before we even buried her!” I shouted, my voice echoing in the small office. “You planned this!”

Mr. Vance cleared his throat. “The document is notarized, Mrs. Davis. If you wish to contest it, you will need to file a formal petition in probate court. But I assure you, everything is legally binding.”

I left that office feeling completely numb. I didn’t cry. I was too angry for tears. I went straight to the Chase bank branch on Mound Road, the one where Mom had kept her savings account for forty years. Since I was still listed as a joint owner on her secondary checking account, I was able to request the past twelve months of bank statements for her main savings account.

It took the teller twenty minutes to print everything out. When she handed me the stack of papers, she looked at me with a soft, pitying expression.