A week later, I stood on the doorstep of the law firm for the will reading. Vivien, draped in designer black, stopped me with a smile that was more of a sneer. “This meeting is only for heirs,” she said, her voice sickly sweet.

Instead of arguing, I handed the lawyer a document. It was a letter from my father, written in the final days of his life. The lawyer’s eyes widened as he read it. Vivien’s confidence wavered, her practiced smile faltering.