“What are you talking about?” I asked.

Diane stepped in smoothly. “Your grandmother left this house to your father’s side of the family. Since he’s the rightful heir, the transfer should have happened years ago. We’ve already spoken to someone.”

“Spoken to someone”—the phrase people use when they want weak lies to sound official.

The truth was simple: the house had belonged to my grandmother Eleanor—my mother’s mother—and she left it to me. I had handled probate, paid taxes, refinanced repairs. Every responsibility had been mine. My father knew that. He just hoped intimidation would work better than facts.

“Dad,” I said evenly, “you barely had a relationship with Grandma Eleanor. You don’t get to rewrite history.”

His expression tightened. Diane laughed lightly. “Careful. You don’t want to make this worse.”

That was her favorite line. To them, “worse” meant documented.

My father handed me the papers. They were nothing more than a draft petition—no court stamp, no filing number—filled with vague claims and empty accusations.

“You can hand over the keys,” Diane said, “or we can handle this in court.”

I looked at them, then smiled.

They thought I didn’t know what they’d already tried—like the suspicious filing linked to my property months earlier. They thought I’d missed it.

So I turned and calmly walked to my office.

“Go ahead, start packing,” Diane called after me.