Chapter 5
We filed the official petition to enforce the will two weeks later.
The first hearing was a zoo.
Hannah and Mom had hired a flashy lawyer in a tailored suit who loved the sound of his own voice. He stood in front of the judge and waved his arms around, talking about “grieving family members” and “greedy daughters who abandon their sick fathers.”
He tried to say Mr. Bennett had forged the will, that Dad had been too out of it to know what he was signing.
Mr. Bennett didn’t even break a sweat.
He laid out our evidence one by one, slow and deliberate.
Medical records proving Dad had been on high doses of pain medication and sedatives the day the fake will was signed—medication that impaired his judgment and memory.
Sworn statements from two nurses who’d been in the room, confirming Hannah and Mom had yelled at Dad, isolated him from me, and pressured him to sign.
Time-stamped security footage from the hospital showing me coming and going every single day during Dad’s stay, and Hannah only showing up twice—both times with her lawyer in tow.
Then he played the video.
The whole court went quiet while Dad spoke.
I watched the jury. Their faces softened. A few of them wiped their eyes.
When the video ended, the flashy lawyer didn’t have much to say.
The judge set a trial date for three months out.
“Given the clear evidence of coercion presented today,” she said, looking straight at Mom and Hannah, “I’m issuing a preliminary injunction freezing all estate assets until the trial concludes. No sales. No transfers. No spending. If I hear either of you has violated this order, you’ll be held in contempt. Do I make myself clear?”
Mom and Hannah nodded, their faces white.
Outside the courthouse, a small group of reporters was waiting.
Someone had leaked the story to the local news. Probably Hannah, trying to get public sympathy on her side.
They shoved microphones in my face, yelling questions.
“Olivia! Is it true you’re suing your own mother for your dead father’s money?”
“Did you really abandon your dad while he was dying?”
“How does it feel to tear your family apart?”
Mia stepped in front of me, her arms crossed, and stared them down.
“Olivia was the only one who showed up for her dad every single day,” she said, loud and clear. “If you want a story, write about that. Write about a mother who slaps her daughter for asking a question. Write about a sister who forged a will to steal from the only person who actually cared for their father.”
The reporters went quiet.
We walked to the car.
By that night, the story was everywhere.
Local news. Facebook. TikTok.
And just like Hannah had planned, there were people calling me every name in the book.
Gold digger. Ungrateful brat. Family destroyer.
But there were more people on my side.
Thousands of comments from strangers who’d seen the court documents, who’d heard the nurses’ statements, who’d watched Dad’s video.
I know exactly what this is like. My mom favored my brother too.
I sat with my dad through chemo too. No one gets it unless they’ve lived it.
You keep fighting, girl. Your dad is proud of you.
I read every single one.
They got me through the nights when I lay awake, scared, wondering if I was doing the right thing.
Grandma called me every night, too.
She’d tell me stories about Dad when he was a kid. How he’d fallen out of a tree and broken his arm and still tried to ride his bike. How he’d worked three jobs to put himself through college. How he’d cried when I was born, because he’d never thought he’d be lucky enough to have a daughter.
“Robert was always so proud of you,” she’d say. “He used to call me just to brag about your new job, your new apartment. He’d say, ‘Mom, that girl of mine is going to change the world.’”
Those words wrapped around me like a blanket.
Three months felt like forever.
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But every day, I got a little stronger.
Every day, I knew I was one step closer to justice.
