**THE SECOND WILL**
Dad called this morning, voice tight. “Come over. Now.” He never calls. Never. Just sends a birthday card with a five-dollar bill, stained with something… coffee, probably. Mom died five years ago, and it’s been radio silence since.
The house smelled like dust and burnt coffee. He was sitting in Mom’s old chair, a crumpled piece of paper in his shaking hands. “Your brother,” he rasped, “he… he’s challenging the will.”
He shoved the paper at me. A lawyer’s letter, full of legal jargon I couldn’t understand. But then, at the bottom, underlined in red ink: “Contesting the validity of the *second* will…” ⬇️
My blood ran cold. A second will? Mom had never mentioned a second will. The first, the one we’d all accepted, bequeathed the house and meager savings equally between my brother, Mark, and me. Mark, the prodigal son, the one who’d burned bridges faster than he built them. This felt like a betrayal, a posthumous stab in the back.
“What does he say?” I asked, my voice trembling. The scent of burnt coffee seemed to intensify, mirroring the bitterness rising in my gut.
Dad’s eyes, usually a warm brown, were now clouded with a mixture of fear and resentment. “He claims… he claims Mom wasn’t in her right mind when she signed it. Says she was… influenced.” He coughed, a rattling sound that echoed the turmoil in the room. “Influenced by… me.”
The accusation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Me? I’d barely spoken to Mom in the last five years. My relationship with Mark, however, was a powder keg waiting for a spark. He’d always resented Mom’s favoritism towards me, a favoritism that existed only in his warped perception.
The lawyer’s letter mentioned a witness, a Mrs. Eleanor Vance. A name that sparked a faint, unsettling memory. Mrs. Vance was Mom’s neighbour, a sharp-tongued woman with a reputation for meddling. I’d seen her visiting Mom frequently in the months leading up to her death, but dismissed it as neighbourly kindness.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind of legal battles and accusations. Mark, fueled by bitterness and a lawyer who specialized in exploiting loopholes, painted a picture of a frail, manipulated woman, easily swayed by my supposed machinations. He even produced a shaky video recording, purportedly showing Mom signing the second will, her hand trembling, her words slurred. But the video lacked clarity; the sound was muffled, the image blurry.
Then, during a tense meeting with my lawyer, a piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The second will, which left the house to me and a sizeable sum to a local animal shelter – Mom’s lifelong passion – was dated several months *before* the date on the video Mark presented. My lawyer, a shrewd woman with an eagle eye for detail, spotted it immediately.
The unexpected twist? Mark had forged the video and backdated it. His resentment had twisted into a desperate attempt to claim everything. The evidence was irrefutable.
The final hearing was a tense affair. Mark’s face was a mask of fury as the judge ruled in my favor. But it wasn’t the victory I’d expected. Seeing the raw pain in Mark’s eyes, the utter defeat etched onto his features, a strange wave of empathy washed over me. It wasn’t just about the house anymore. It was about a broken brother, and a family torn apart by grief and misguided ambition.
The judge adjourned, but I stayed behind. I approached Mark, the silence between us thick and heavy.
“Mark,” I said, my voice soft, “Mom loved animals. Maybe… maybe we could do something together for the shelter, in her memory?”
He looked at me, surprise warring with the lingering anger in his eyes. A small, almost imperceptible, nod was his answer. The legal battle was over, but the true work of healing, the rebuilding of bridges, had only just begun. The future remained uncertain, but a seed of hope had been planted, a fragile testament to the enduring power of family, even amidst the wreckage of betrayal and loss.