The tension snapped on the one-year anniversary of the funeral. We were at the house, a cold dinner sitting between us. Mark, whose tech startup was hemorrhaging cash, finally dropped the facade.
“Mom, this is ridiculous,” he said, throwing his napkin on the table. “You’re sitting on a mountain of capital that could save my company. Lucas is struggling with his mortgage. Dad’s ‘test’ was a year ago. We’ve said sorry. We’ve shown up. When do we get the actual inheritance?”
I took a slow sip of water. “Robert didn’t set a timer, Mark. He set a standard. You’re asking for the money because your ‘company’ is failing, yet the software firm Robert secretly owned is the very one you tried to outcompete and bankrupt three years ago. Did you know that?”
Mark’s face went pale. “What?”
“He watched you try to destroy his hard work while he was alive,” I said. “He didn’t stop you because he wanted to see if you’d value the craft or the kill. You chose the kill. And now you want the victim to pay your bills?”
