Chapter 5

The trial was brutal.

Gwendolyn's lawyer attacked me. Attacked my mother. Attacked my father. Called us liars. Called me a gold-digger. Called my mother a fool.

But the evidence was overwhelming. The will. The deed. The trust documents. The bank records — four hundred thousand dollars siphoned into Gwendolyn's accounts. The forged signatures. The lies.

And my father testified.

He told the court everything. How Gwendolyn had controlled the money. How she'd lied to him. How he'd been willfully blind. How she'd treated me. How she'd given away my mother's things. How she'd demanded my bedroom. How I'd walked out with two suitcases and never looked back.

He cried on the stand. The judge saw it. The jury saw it.

Gwendolyn testified. She was composed. Elegant. She lied. She blamed my father. She blamed me. She blamed her lawyer.

But the bank records didn't lie. The signatures didn't lie. My father's testimony didn't lie.

The jury deliberated for four hours.

They found in my favor. Everything. The house. The trust. The four hundred thousand dollars — plus penalties. Gwendolyn had to pay it all back.

And then the criminal charges came. Grand theft. Forgery. Fraud. The police arrested Gwendolyn at her motel room.

I got the call from Karen. "She's in custody," she said. "No bail. She's looking at five to seven years."

I sat down. I was in my kitchen. The sun was setting over the valley. The glass walls were pink and gold.

"Thank you," I said.

I didn't celebrate. I didn't call friends. I just — sat. And breathed. And let it sink in.

It was over.

Chloe called me that night. She was crying. "Paige," she said. "My mom's in jail. I have nowhere to go. I have no money. My friends — they all left. I don't know what to do."

I listened. I didn't hang up. Chloe was eighteen. She was spoiled. She was entitled. She'd been cruel. But she was also — a kid. A kid whose mother had used her, taught her to be cruel, and then abandoned her when the money ran out.

"Chloe," I said. "I'm not going to take you in. I'm not going to give you money. But I will help you. I'll help you find a job. I'll help you apply for community college. I'll help you get on your feet. But you have to do the work. And you have to stop being the person your mother taught you to be."

She was quiet. Then she said, "Okay. I'll do it. Whatever you say."

I sent her the number of a friend who managed a coffee shop. I sent her the link to the community college application. I told her to call me when she'd filled it out.

She called three days later. She'd gotten the job. She'd filled out the application. She was living in a cheap apartment, working two jobs, going to school.

I didn't trust her. Not yet. But I respected the effort.

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And slowly, over months, she changed. She stopped asking for money. She started asking for advice. She started — listening.

It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. But it was a start.