My father stayed quiet most days, his pride damaged beyond repair.

“Ms. Bennett,” he said, leaning back. “This isn’t just enough. This is a demolition crew.”

We filed on a Monday morning. The lawsuit was a masterpiece of aggression: Claims of fraud, elder financial abuse, illegal eviction, and theft by deception.

Thanks to Julia’s recorded admission, and Paige’s social media posts flaunting the luxuries they “earned” (a new BMW, a trip to Tulum) while claiming poverty, the court granted an emergency motion.

They froze everything. The joint accounts. The house title. Even Diane’s personal savings.

A week later, Diane called. She didn’t sound syrupy this time. She sounded like a cornered animal.

“Why is there a sheriff at my door serving me papers?” she shrieked. “You’re trying to bankrupt me?”

“No,” I replied, my voice steady, devoid of emotion. “I’m just returning what was his.”

“I am your mother!” she screamed.

“And he was your husband for thirty-five years. You threw him out like garbage.”

“You’re just like him,” she snapped. “Cold. Unfeeling.”

I almost laughed. “That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? That I’m exactly like the man you couldn’t break.”

The discovery phase was brutal. The forensic audit I requested revealed everything. Diane had been siphoning money for years to fund a secret gambling habit. Julia had been paying her boyfriend’s debts. Paige had simply been stealing.

My mother panicked. She tried to paint me as a brainwashed pawn in court documents. But facts are stubborn things, and bank statements don’t lie.

I mailed Julia a letter. No threats. Just a copy of her recording on a USB drive. And a note: Settle, or this goes to the District Attorney. Fraud is a felony, Julia.

Two weeks later, their lawyer contacted ours. Diane offered a settlement: full ownership of the house returned to Harold, repayment of half the drained funds (it was all they had left), and a public withdrawal of all abuse claims. In return, we’d stop litigation and sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding the criminal aspects.

I read the terms aloud to my father in my living room. The fire was crackling, casting long shadows on the wall.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

He looked at me with hollow, tired eyes. “What would you do, Sarah?”

“I’d take it,” I said. “I’d take the house. I’d take the money. And then I would burn them slowly.”

He looked at the fire for a long time. Then he nodded. “Do it.”