“You won’t see a dime of that if we go to court,” my father warned.

“We will drag this out until you are broke.”

“I don’t think you will,” I said, pointing to the note.

“Because if this note becomes public, the probate judge is going to look very closely at your claims of family solidarity.”

My father’s eyes locked onto the yellowed paper.

I saw the muscles in his forearm tense.

He stepped toward the table, his hand reaching out slowly toward the document.

My hand drifted toward my coat pocket, where the heavy radio rested.

Outside, a branch snapped under the weight of the snow, the sound sharp like a gunshot.

The fire flared, casting a bright orange glow across my father’s calculating face.

He looked from the note to me, his fingers hovering just inches from the fragile paper.

“Don’t touch it,” I said, my voice quiet but steady.

My father paused, his hand remaining suspended over the oak table.

“You always were a stubborn child,” he said, slowly pulling his hand back and tucking it into his pocket.