When the guard brought them into the front courtyard, Savannah looked around as if she had stepped straight into a glossy magazine spread. The ocean shone behind the villa. The fountain murmured between us. For once, she had no insult prepared.
“Mom,” Brent said, forcing out a laugh. “You never told us about this place.”
“You never asked where I went after you threw me out.”
Savannah flinched. “That was a misunderstanding.”
“You called me trash.”
Her smile shook. “I was emotional.”
“You were honest.”
Brent stepped closer. “Mom, come on. We’re family. The kids miss you.”
I studied him closely. “Do they? Or did your mortgage lender call again?”
His face tightened.
Helen opened her folder. “Mrs. Whitfield asked me to review certain transfers. Over eight years, she provided your household with approximately $684,000 in direct support.”
Savannah’s mouth opened—not because she felt guilty, but because she was calculating.
Brent whispered, “Six hundred…?”
“You didn’t know because I never wanted gratitude,” I said. “I wanted decency.”
Savannah recovered before he did. “Then why stop now? You obviously have enough.”
There it was. Not remorse. Not shame. Appetite.
I gave Helen a nod.
She handed Brent a notice. “Mrs. Whitfield has removed you from all discretionary family trusts. Education accounts for Oliver and Lily remain protected, payable directly to their schools. You and your wife have no access.”
Savannah yanked off her sunglasses. “You can’t do that.”
“I can,” I said. “And I did.”
Brent’s voice broke. “Mom, you’re punishing my children.”
“No. I’m protecting them from parents who see love as a bank withdrawal.”
Savannah stepped nearer, her face flushed red. “You think money makes you better than us?”
“No,” I said. “But it did reveal you.”
