My stepsister immediately dropped the jacket.
It hit the marble floor.
My stepbrother looked down at the sneakers on his feet as though they had become dangerous.
My stepmother laughed.
“You’re being intentionally misleading.”
The attorney removed several pages.
“Leather jacket.”
She named the amount.
“Footwear.”
Another amount.
“Watch.”
“Headphones.”
“Two handbags.”
“Hotel upgrades.”
“Spa charges.”
“Private transportation.”
My stepmother walked toward her.
“You have no right—”
The attorney raised one hand.
“I have every right.”
She glanced at me.
“She is the beneficiary.”
Then at my father.
“And your husband is currently a co-trustee under review for failing to supervise distributions.”
My father flinched.
That scared me more than anything.
My father was being investigated too.
He looked at me.
“I didn’t know.”
My stepmother immediately seized it.
“Exactly.”
She turned to him.
“You didn’t know because there is nothing wrong.”
The attorney said:
“There is a great deal wrong.”
My stepmother pointed toward the shopping bags.
“These are household expenses.”
“No.”
“Clothing for children in the household is maintenance.”
“Not under this trust.”
“They are her siblings.”
“Not beneficiaries.”
My stepmother’s face changed.
“This is disgusting.”
I stared.
The attorney said:
“What is?”
“You’re standing in my house reducing children to account numbers.”
The attorney looked at her for a long moment.
Then closed the folder.
“This is not your house.”
No one breathed.
My stepmother blinked.
“What?”
The attorney looked at me.
Then back at her.
“The residence is owned by an irrevocable property trust established by the late mother.”
My stepmother stared.
My father lowered his head.
He had known that part.
I hadn’t.
The attorney continued:
“The beneficiary is her daughter.”
My ears began ringing.
I looked around.
The staircase.
The windows.
The marble floor.
The enormous chandelier my stepmother had replaced two years earlier because the old one looked “dated.”
The house?
Mine?
My stepmother laughed.
“No.”
Nobody joined.
“My husband owns this house.”
My father said quietly:
“No.”
She turned.
“What?”
He looked at her.
“The trust owns it.”
“You said it was ours.”
“I said we had the right to live here.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
Her voice rose.
“You let me renovate this place.”
“Yes.”
“You let me pay for it.”
My father looked toward the attorney.
The attorney said: