“The old cork-handled one he used to take to the lake.” Thomas actually laughed out loud. Caroline rolled her eyes and smirked at me. We thought she was being hopelessly naive, leaving the real money on the table for a worthless piece of fiberglass.

We silently rejoiced that she wouldn’t be fighting us for the big-ticket items.

We had absolutely no idea what was coming. Mr. Vance adjusted his glasses, opened a thick manila folder, and read exactly three sentences before stopping dead. He looked up at the three of us with a grim, almost pitying expression. “I need to inform you,” he said slowly, “that your father’s estate has no distributable assets.” The room went entirely silent.

Then, Thomas exploded. “What are you talking about? The house alone appraised at $380,000! I ran the comps myself!” Mr. Vance didn’t flinch. “The house was appraised at $380,000, yes. But your father took out a reverse mortgage five years ago to cover his initial medical expenses.

The bank currently owns 94% of the property. The remaining equity is completely offset by unrecorded tax liens. If you attempt to sell it, you will actually owe money at closing. The bank will be taking possession of the property at the end of the month.” Caroline’s face turned completely white.

Her voice shook as she leaned forward. “Fine. Whatever. What about the savings accounts? The investments?” Mr. Vance flipped a page. “The savings account currently holds three hundred and forty dollars. There are no investment accounts.” “What about the truck?” I practically shouted, my stomach dropping into my shoes.

I had already cleared space in my garage for it. “Leased,” Mr. Vance said flatly, sliding a piece of paper across the table toward me. “He sold the original truck two years ago to pay for treatments, and leased a similar model to keep up appearances.

He had eleven months left on the contract at $487 a month.

The dealership is coming to repossess it tomorrow.” My head was spinning. Everything we had fought over, everything we had screamed at each other about for half a year, was an illusion. Dad was broke.

Worse than broke. But the real nightmare hadn’t even started. Mr. Vance flipped to the next page, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He looked directly at me, Thomas, and Caroline. “Additionally,” he continued, his voice devoid of any emotion, “your father accumulated $87,000 in medical debt during his final year in the care facility.” “Well, the estate is bankrupt,” Thomas snapped, crossing his arms defensively.

“So that’s the facility’s problem. They can’t get blood from a stone.” “Normally, that would be true,” Mr. Vance replied. “However, when your father was admitted to the memory care unit, he was not of sound mind to sign his own financial intake forms. The three of you signed them on his behalf.” I felt all the blood drain from my face. I remembered that day.