The will reading came a week later. Dad’s lawyer, Mr. Hargrove, cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. Our childhood home, where Dad taught me to ride a bike in the backyard and where we carved pumpkins every Halloween, went to Theo.
“But I thought—” I started.
“The house goes to Theo,” Mr. Hargrove repeated. “There’s a small savings account for Lila, about $3,000.”
Theo’s face stayed blank. No surprise, no gratitude. Nothing.
That night, I was washing dishes when he cornered me in the kitchen.
“I need you out by Sunday.”
My hands froze on the plates. “What?”
