You're lucky we're even letting you sleep here, my older sister Clara said, wiping down the marble counter in our late mother's Charleston kitchen.
I walked into the kitchen, rain still clinging to my clothes. Marcus stood by the counter, holding the key ring loosely in his hand. His eyes narrowed on me, then flicked to the damp folder I carried.
Clara sat at the dining table, already halfway through a plate of shrimp and grits. She didn’t look up immediately, her fork scraping against the ceramic.
“You’re late,” she mumbled, not bothering to make eye contact.
“I went to the clerk’s office,” I said, my voice steady.
She finally looked up, her expression unchanging. A small, self-satisfied smile played on her lips. She pushed a folded legal document across the table. It slid to a stop just in front of my plate.
“Figured you’d want this,” she said.
It was a legal summons. I picked it up, my fingers brushing against the cold, official paper. “Petition for Emergency Adult Guardianship.” Clara was seeking to have me declared incompetent to manage my own affairs, placing me under her financial control.
The document stated that as a minor, I couldn’t legally challenge estate decisions or handle house maintenance, especially with “significant outstanding debts.” It was all a pretense to strip me of any legal standing.
“You can’t do this,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
Clara shrugged, spearing a shrimp. “As your only adult family, and with the estate in such disarray, the court will agree it’s for your own good, Leo.”
“The house is paid off,” I said, pulling out the copy of the mortgage satisfaction from my damp folder. I pointed to the clerk’s stamped date, clearly showing it had been paid in full two years ago. “There’s no mortgage debt.”
Clara glanced at it, her eyes quickly scanning the paper. She gave a dismissive laugh.
“That’s outdated paperwork, Leo,” she said, waving a hand. “Mom was always terrible with finances. We have $140,000 in *new* debt, remember? Medical bills. Loans.”
“This loan isn’t medical bills,” I countered, pulling out the private equity loan document. “It’s a private line of credit taken out just before Mom died, using a forged signature. And these tax notices,” I added, fanning out the red-lettered envelopes, “are from you ignoring property taxes for months.”
Clara’s face tightened, but she recovered quickly. “That’s speculation. Mom was sick, her signature might have changed. And those tax notices are for minor amounts, nothing compared to the bigger picture.”
She stood up, collecting her plate. “The court hearing is in four days, Leo. Maybe you should focus on that instead of digging through mail.”
My heart dropped. Four days. That was barely enough time to even find a lawyer, let alone prepare a defense. She wanted to render my legal objections void before I could even voice them.
She turned her back to me, the plate rattling softly. Marcus watched from the kitchen entrance, his face a blank mask. He had seen everything. He had said nothing.
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