Samantha called later that day with another update.
She had been reviewing the property records and coordinating with the people responsible for the trust and the company.
Nothing had been settled completely.
But the basic picture was becoming clearer.
“Your father's claims are not enough to give him control of the assets,” she told me.
I leaned back against the pillows.
“I keep thinking about how certain he sounded.”
“Confidence doesn't replace documentation.”
I almost smiled.
Lucas used to say something similar whenever a business partner made a promise without putting it in writing.
I had teased him for being cautious.
Now I wished I had listened more carefully.
Samantha explained that the deed established my interest in the house.
The trust documents set out protections for the assets placed under those arrangements.
The company records governed the ownership and control of the shares.
They were related parts of Lucas's estate planning, but each had its own rules.
My father couldn't simply combine them into one story about debts and liquidation.
That was what he had tried to do.
He had presented a folder and expected me to accept his version without asking for evidence.
I thought of the way the papers had slid across the table.
I had barely looked at them.
At the time, I was too shocked to think clearly.
Now I wanted to know exactly what he had brought into my house.
“Can we find out what's in that folder?” I asked.
“We're working to establish what documents he used and whether he submitted anything to anyone. We won't assume the folder tells the whole story.”
“What if he took papers from Lucas's desk?”
“Then we'll determine what is missing and obtain copies where possible.”
I remembered Charles opening the drawers.
He had moved with purpose.
He hadn't looked like someone searching for a document he had misplaced.
He had looked like someone who expected to find something useful.
The thought made my stomach tighten.
“Do you think he knew about the trust?”
“I can't say how much he knew. His request suggests he believed there were assets he could influence, but we need evidence before drawing conclusions about his intentions.”
I understood.
Samantha was not going to invent certainty just to comfort me.
That mattered.
I had spent too much of my life listening to my father state his opinions as facts.
I didn't need another person doing the same thing.
I needed someone who would tell me what was known, what was still uncertain, and what could be done about it.
“What happens if he did use a false signature?” I asked.
“If the evidence establishes that he knowingly submitted a forged authorization, we can take appropriate legal steps. The trust's protections may also be activated under the relevant provisions.”
I remembered Lucas's careful handwriting on the papers he sometimes brought home.
He had always signed his name slowly, with a small pause before the final letter.
I wondered whether my father had tried to imitate mine.
I had no proof that he had.
The possibility was enough to make me feel sick.
Samantha brought me back to the present.
“Victoria, I need you to focus on your health. You don't have to solve every part of this today.”
“I know.”
But I didn't want to be passive anymore.
For years, I had let Charles take over conversations because he spoke louder and longer.
I had allowed him to turn questions into arguments and arguments into accusations.
This time, I wanted records.
I wanted copies.
I wanted the truth written down where it could not be changed by the person telling the story.
“Please send me copies of the documents I'm entitled to review,” I said.
“I will arrange that.”
“And I want to understand the trust before anyone asks me to sign anything.”
“That's sensible. You should understand every document before signing it.”
After we ended the call, I asked a nurse whether I could sit up for a while.
She helped me adjust the pillows.
The movement made my back ache, but I preferred sitting to staring at the ceiling.
I looked at the hospital blanket and smoothed one of its folded edges.
It reminded me of the way I used to fold Lucas's shirts.
I had kept one beneath my pillow because I wasn't ready to let go of the smell.
Now I was beginning to understand that grief had made every practical task feel impossible.
Even reading a document had seemed too much.
My father had counted on that, whether I could prove it or not.
He had come while I was vulnerable.
He had brought a folder I had no chance to examine properly.
He had told me the house had to be sold.
And when I refused, he had used force.
Whatever he had intended to accomplish, he had not expected me to call Lucas's attorney.
That one decision had brought the matter into the hands of people who could verify the facts.
For the first time since the accident, I felt able to make a decision that wasn't simply about getting through the next hour.
I was going to understand what Lucas had left me.
Not because I wanted his money.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Because it was my life, my home, and my child's future.
And I wasn't going to let Charles decide what those things were worth.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: When Samantha Asked Whether I Wanted My Father to Speak for Me Again, I Finally Gave Her an Answer I Had Avoided for Years
Three Weeks After My Husband Died, My Father Walked Into My Kitchen and Told Me I No Longer Belonged There
Part 10 of 24
