Dad shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve operated there for twelve years.”
“Operating a property doesn’t make you the owner.”
Dad looked at me.
I could see something I’d never seen in his face before.
Fear.
Not anger.
Not embarrassment.
Fear.
Mr. Grant continued.
“The trust allowed you to use the building for your business as long as you remained in compliance with the terms.”
Dad’s voice dropped.
“What terms?”
“Your mother was never to be pressured, deceived, or financially exploited.”
Aunt Monica whispered, “Oh my God.”
Mr. Grant nodded.
“Exactly.”
Dad stared at the floor.
I remembered something Grandma had told me weeks earlier.
Grandpa had built that company from nothing.
For forty years, he and Grandma had worked together.
After Grandpa died, Dad took over the company.
Everyone assumed he owned everything.
Apparently, that wasn’t true.
For illustrative purposes only
Mr. Grant turned to the final page.
