Because of his simple lifestyle, none of us realized how much money he had saved. He had invested wisely in local rental properties. He had a solid pension, a healthy savings account, and the house on Oak Street was completely paid off.

Growing up, Dad always told us the same thing.

“When I go, everything gets split four ways. Evenly. I don’t want you kids fighting over a single dime.”

He even kept a faded blue leather ledger in his desk drawer where he wrote down every account, every property deed, and his wishes for his burial.

His prize possession was a gold-plated fountain pen. It was given to him by his union buddies when he retired from the plant. He kept it in his breast pocket like a badge of honor.

But when the dementia took hold, Dad started to slip away. First, it was small things. He would forget where he parked the Buick at the Meijer parking lot. Then, he started calling me by my mother’s name. Mom had passed away ten years earlier.

By last summer, he was living in a specialized care facility. He was sweet, but he was entirely gone. He spent his days staring out the window, watching the birds, or holding his gold retirement pen, clicking the cap on and off.

And then, on October twenty-second, he died peacefully in his sleep.

We were grieving, but we were united. Or so we thought. Until we walked into Mr. Vance’s office for the reading of the will.

I knew my sister Claire was selfish. She had always been the baby of the family, the one who got away with everything. But I never imagined she would do something like this.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about the date on that new will. October fourteenth. Eight days before Dad took his last breath.

During those final weeks, Dad was in hospice care. He was barely conscious. He spent most of his time asleep, drifting under the influence of heavy pain medication.

There was no physical way he could have understood a legal contract, let alone signed one.

I decided to take action. I didn’t tell David or Sarah because I didn’t want to get their hopes up. I hired a certified handwriting analyst based in Cleveland. It cost me $1,800 of my own savings, money I had set aside for a trip to see my grandchildren.

I provided the analyst with Dad’s signature from old tax documents, his pension papers, and his union cards. Then, I obtained a copy of the disputed will from the probate court.

Five days later, the analyst called me.