“Five minutes, Richard,” Arthur reminded him.

The clock on the mantel ticked loudly.

Outside, a flash of lightning illuminated the living room.

In the sudden light, my father’s face looked like a mask of pure hatred.

He reached slowly toward the table.

His fingers stretched out.

But he did not grab the pen.

His hand hovered just inches above the original will.

“You think this piece of paper is your salvation?” he whispered.

I saw the muscles in his forearm tense.

I saw the manic grin beginning to form on his lips.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I did not back down.

“Sign the papers, Dad,” I repeated.

His hand twitched, his fingers curling like claws.

Just then, Arthur’s phone on the table buzzed.

The screen lit up with an incoming text.

My father’s hand came down like a hammer.

He did not grab the pen.

Instead, he snatched the original will from the table, his fingers digging into the thick parchment.

“Richard, don’t,” Arthur said, his voice flat and steady.

My father did not listen.

With a harsh, guttural sound, he ripped the paper in half.