Before I can respond, a door opens, and an older man with thinning gray hair and reading glasses perched low on his nose appears. “Are both Miss Brewers present?”
“We are,” both Sabrina and I say in unison.
The man nods. “We’re ready for you. Please follow me.”
Raffaele’s hand remains firmly on my hip as we follow the lawyer into his office. The space is cramped, lined with shelves of leather-bound law books and filing cabinets. The desk dominates the room, leaving barely enough space for the two visitor chairs arranged before it.
“I’m sorry,” the man says, flustered. “I only have two chairs. Would the gentlemen mind standing?”
Maxwell opens his mouth, probably to protest. But Raffaele just smirks at me as he sits down, dragging me with him so I’m sitting sideways in his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Despite knowing it’s inappropriate, I can’t make myself fight it when I see the shock on Sabrina’s face.
I notice the lawyer—Mr. Clark, according to the nameplate on his desk—glancing nervously at Raffaele several times.
“We’re here for the estate settlement meeting regarding Sophia Marie Brewer,” Mr. Clark says, adjusting his glasses. “I’ll walk you through the will and the transfer paperwork.” His voice has a droning quality, like he’s done this so many times the words have lost all meaning to him.
I stare at the framed diplomas on the wall behind him, trying to focus on anything other than the hole in my chest that opens wider every time someone says my mom’s name.
“I’ll try to keep this brief,” Mr. Clark continues. “The will is fairly straightforward. After addressing any outstanding debts of the estate—”
“Which there aren’t any of,” Sabrina interjects with a pointed look in my direction.
Mr. Clark clears his throat. “As I was saying, after debts, Ms. Brewer divided her assets equally between her two daughters. The family bakery business and the apartment above it are split fifty-fifty between Alina Kate Brewer and Sabrina Olivia Brewer.”
A tense silence fills the room. I knew this was coming—it’s what Mom always said she intended—but hearing it officially stated makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.
“That’s it?” Sabrina’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Fifty-fifty? That can’t be right.”
Mr. Clark peers at her over the top of his glasses. “I assure you, Ms. Brewer, the will is quite clear on this matter.”
“Butmydad put money into that business as well,” Sabrina argues, sitting forward in her chair. “I should get a larger share based on his investment alone.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “It wasourdad, Sabrina,” I say quietly but firmly. “Not just yours.”
Sabrina’s eyes snap to mine, blazing with an anger that seems disproportionate to my gentle correction. Maxwell places a restraining hand on her arm, but I can see the tension radiating through her body.
“The will clearly states an equal division,” Mr. Clark interjects, his monotone voice taking on a hint of impatience. “Ms. Brewer was quite explicit about her wishes.”
I feel Raffaele shift beneath me, his posture sharpening with quiet attention. His fingers find mine, squeezing gently.
Sabrina’s face contorts with rage. “This is bullsh—”
“You’re free to challenge it,” Mr. Clark says evenly, removing his glasses. “But absent legal grounds such as undue influence or lack of capacity, it’s unlikely to succeed. Your mother executed this properly.”
I sit in stunned silence, processing what’s happening. But it’s like with everything else in my life right now. I don’t get it. The day after Mom’s death, Sabrina and I talked. We both assumed we’d receive an even split. We even talked about it at the funeral, didn’t we?
Her reaction makes no sense at all.
“Your mother recorded a transfer-on-death deed for the building and structured the bakery through an LLC,” Mr. Clark explains.
Then he goes on to explain how that’s handled, what he’s already done, and what happens now. It all sounds extremely complex to me. But what do I know?
“You are now co-owners. Once the administrative updates are processed, the records will reflect that,” he finishes.
Sabrina scoffs. “As if I want anything to do with that run-down dump.”
The casual dismissal of what our mom built—what I’ve poured my heart into—stings more than I want to admit. I straighten my spine, refusing to show how deeply her words cut.
