Calvin took a step forward, his massive frame towering over my father.

“I don’t need proof to know you’re a thief,” Calvin growled.

“Careful, supervisor,” my father warned. “You’re an employee of a company that is about to change hands.”

“I work for Avery,” Calvin said.

“Not for long,” my father replied.

I looked at the yellowed paper in my father’s hand.

He was still holding it over the fireplace.

He looked down at it, then back at me.

“It seems this little note is the least of your worries now, Avery,” he said.

“Even if the court has a scan of it, it doesn’t matter if there is no will to contest.”

“The scan proves your character,” I said, my voice shaking with anger.

“Character doesn’t decide probate,” my father said. “The law does.”

With a sudden, swift motion, he tossed the yellowed paper into the heart of the fire.

The dry paper caught instantly.

A bright orange flame flared up, illuminating the dark corners of the cabin.

The looping handwriting of my mother’s note vanished into black ash in a matter of seconds.