Franklin stared at me, and I could see him doing the math he had avoided for years. “Mom,” he said again, quieter now, “who is Rosalind?” I held the phone against my shoulder and answered him plainly. “Rosalind is my attorney. She’s been my attorney since your father died.” Sylvia’s smile finally slipped. She sat up straight, both hands flat on the table now, no longer resting there like a queen but bracing like someone who had just felt the floor tilt. “Your attorney,” she repeated. “Why would you need an attorney tonight?”

I did not answer her. I answered Rosalind instead, into the receiver, my eyes never leaving my daughter-in-law’s face. “Yes. Everything we discussed last month. Draw it up in the morning.” Then I hung up, walked calmly back to the table, and sat down in front of the plate Sylvia had ordered me to carry outside like a servant. “You said you’re in charge of this house now,” I said. “Let me explain to you, very slowly, exactly whose house you are sitting in, and what I just set in motion. Because after tonight, Sylvia, nothing here belongs to you at all.”