“We’ve already divided the estate,” my mother said, voice sharp enough to cut silver. “Your sister gets the rental apartments. You’ll get… something.”
Everyone nodded like it was a done deal—as if those twelve buildings were already hers.
I just opened my folder, slid a single county record across the table, and told her, very quietly, “You can’t divide what isn’t yours.”
She read the 2018 deed with my name on it… and started screaming.
County Line
Part 1
The muffler on my 2012 Honda Civic was hanging on by a coat hanger and a prayer. Every pothole on the way to my parents’ house made the car scream like a dying tractor—screech-chunk, screech-chunk—loud enough that people on the sidewalk turned their heads to check whether the whole thing was about to collapse.
I pulled into the long paved driveway of my childhood home in Providence and parked far enough from the front entrance that my father, Gary, wouldn’t have an aneurysm. He liked the driveway to look a certain way, and that way involved sleek German engineering—not a rusting economy car with peeling clear coat and a muffler held together by hope.
Sure enough, right in the prime spot under the porch light, bathed in a warm glow like it was a showroom display, sat a brand-new white Range Rover with temporary dealer tags.
I exhaled slowly, killed the engine, and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror.
Tired. Not the cute kind. The bone-deep exhaustion of someone who’d spent eight hours teaching thirty high school sophomores how to identify symbolism in The Great Gatsby, then two more hours grading papers in a coffee shop because my internet at home was acting up. I adjusted my glasses, smoothed down my thrift-store cardigan, and grabbed the Tupperware container of homemade potato salad I’d brought—because in my family, you don’t show up empty-handed unless you want to be labeled selfish for the rest of your life.
I climbed the steps. Before I could ring the bell, the door swung open.
My mother, Brenda, stood there in a silk blouse that probably cost more than my monthly car insurance. She didn’t smile. She didn’t say hello. Her eyes flicked to the potato salad, then my shoes, then my face, as if she was scanning for defects.
“You’re late, Rowan,” she said. “And please tell me you didn’t park that eyesore in front of the neighbor’s view.”
“I parked by the street, Mom,” I said flatly. “Good to see you too.”
“Well, hurry up,” she snapped, stepping aside. “The caterers are swamped and Kylie needs help with the champagne tower. Go put an apron on. You know the rule—family helps family.”
I walked into the living room and the noise hit me like a wall: laughter, clinking glasses, smooth jazz from my father’s carefully curated playlist. The house was packed with aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends.
And in the center of it all, holding court like royalty, was my sister, Kylie.
Kylie was thirty-two—three years older than me—and she glowed in the way people glow when they’ve never had to carry anything heavy that wasn’t a designer bag. Her skin had that expensive sheen from facials and good lighting. She wore a shimmering gold dress and laughed loudly at something Uncle S said, tossing her hair like she was on a red carpet.
“Oh, stop,” Kylie shrieked. “It’s not just a blog, Uncle S. It’s a lifestyle brand. Lux Life is launching the consulting arm next month. It’s going to be huge.”
I squeezed past cousins toward the kitchen, but my father intercepted me near the hallway. He held a scotch, face flushed with pride.
“There she is,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking past me at Kylie. “You see your sister, Rowan? That’s what ambition looks like. Partnership in Newport. She’s building something.”
“That’s great, Dad,” I said, shifting the potato salad to my other hip.
He finally looked at me, eyes dropping to my scuffed boots. His mouth tightened.
“You know,” he said, “if you put in a little more effort, maybe you wouldn’t be stuck in that classroom making—what is it? Forty? Fifty thousand?”
“Fifty,” I corrected. “And I have good benefits.”
“Benefits don’t buy Range Rovers,” he scoffed, clapping my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. “Go help your mother. She’s stressing out.”
In the kitchen, chaos moved in coordinated patterns. I set my potato salad down and my mother shoved a silver tray of stuffed mushrooms into my hands before I could remove my coat.
“Table four needs these,” she barked. “Then wash wine glasses. The rental company didn’t send enough.”
I did what I always did. I served. I smiled politely. I became invisible.
People took mushrooms without meeting my eyes. People laughed at Kylie’s jokes. People toasted to “her vision.” My sister was the princess, and I was the unpaid staff.
But as I circulated, I wasn’t just scanning plates.
I was scanning the house.
I noticed the ceiling stain in the corner that had grown since Christmas. I noticed the draft from window frames they never replaced. I knew—because I’d run a credit check on my parents three months ago just to satisfy my own suspicions—that they’d refinanced the house twice in five years to fund Kylie’s “pivots.” First the organic dog treats. Then the custom yoga mats. Now Lux Life.
They were bleeding money to keep the stage lights bright.
Near the sliding doors, sitting alone in a high-backed chair like a throne, was my grandmother: Nana Lucia.
Eighty-five. Tiny. Black lace. Cane in one hand, dark red wine in the other. While everyone swarmed Kylie, Nana sat apart, sharp eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
I knelt beside her chair. “Hi, Nana.”
Her face softened instantly. She cupped my cheek with a hand like parchment.
“Zoro,” she whispered, her old nickname for me. “My treasure. You look tired.”
“Long week,” I murmured.
“They treating you like a waitress again?” Her eyes flashed toward my father.
“It’s fine,” I lied.
“You mind,” she corrected. “You just have discipline. Unlike them.”
She leaned close, voice rasping low. “The wolves are hungry tonight, Rowan. They don’t see a mother. They see a piggy bank.”
I squeezed her hand. “I know.”
“Good,” she whispered. “Keep your eyes open. Keep your mouth shut. The time is coming.”
I stood as my mother signaled from the kitchen doorway, frantic.
As I moved, my fingers brushed the inside pocket of my cardigan.
Inside was a heavy ring of keys—not keys to my Honda, but a master ring that opened twelve multi-family homes across Providence. Properties worth more than five million.
They thought I was the peasant serving the princess.
They had no idea I already owned the kingdom.
Part 2
To understand why I was washing dishes at my sister’s vanity party while quietly sitting on a real estate empire, you have to go back to 2018.
I was twenty-four, drowning in student loans, working two jobs just to pay rent on a basement studio that smelled like mildew and defeat. My family barely spoke to me back then, because I wasn’t dazzling. I wasn’t dating a doctor. I wasn’t launching a brand. I was just Rowan.
One rainy Tuesday in March, Nana Lucia called me.
Not my parents. Not Kylie.
Me.
“Pick me up,” she said. “We have an appointment.”
I thought we were going to the doctor.
Instead, Nana directed me downtown to a brick building with a brass plaque that read THORNE AND ASSOCIATES, ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
We walked into an office that smelled like mahogany and old paper and money that never touched hands. Mr. Thorne, a man in his sixties with a suit sharp enough to cut glass, greeted us with the kind of respect lawyers reserve for clients with real assets.
Nana refused water. Sat down. Looked at me.
“Rowan,” she said steadily, “you know the properties. The twelve triple-deckers your grandfather and I bought over forty years.”
“Of course,” I said. “The rental houses.”
“Your father,” she spat, “wants liquidation. He says the market is hot. He says I should sell, move into a home, and give them inheritance early so they can enjoy it. He calls it planning. I call it greed.”
She gripped her cane tighter. “Your sister came to me last week asking for fifty thousand for a vision. Not a plan. A vision.”
I stayed silent. I’d heard the stories. I’d watched Kylie reinvent herself every year, each reinvention funded by my parents’ refusal to let her fail publicly.
“If I leave these buildings to them,” Nana continued, “they will be sold within a year. Your father will buy a condo he can’t afford. Your sister will blow the rest. Fifty years of work—gone. Tenants pushed out so developers can turn homes into luxury condos.”
Mr. Thorne slid a thick stack of documents across the desk. They landed with a heavy thud.
“This,” he said, “is an irrevocable trust.”
“I don’t understand,” I stammered.
“It means,” Nana said, “that today I transfer ownership of all twelve properties into the trust.”
My mouth went dry. “And who—”
“And you,” Nana interrupted, eyes locked on mine, “are the sole trustee and sole beneficiary.”
The room tilted.
“Me?” I whispered. “Nana, I can’t. They’ll kill me.”
“They won’t know,” she said sharply. “That is the condition. This happens now. Not when I die. You own them. But you tell no one.”
“Why me?” My eyes burned. “I’m nobody. I’m just a teacher.”
Nana reached across the desk and took my hand.
“You are the only one who offered to sweep my sidewalk without asking for money. The only one who visits me when it isn’t a holiday. You know work. You know these buildings aren’t just numbers. They’re roofs over people’s heads.”
Her grip tightened, surprisingly strong.
“I’m giving you a burden,” she said. “You’ll manage repairs, tenants, taxes. And you’ll watch your family beg and scheme, knowing you hold the keys. Can you do that? Can you be a ghost in your own life?”
I looked at the papers, then at her.
I thought of Mrs. Silva, who always made Nana cookies. The young couple in Federal Hill saving for a baby. The families whose rent paid for heat and groceries and stability.
“I’ll do it,” I whispered.
Mr. Thorne handed me a pen. “Sign here, Ms. Romano.”
I signed.
With each stroke, I wasn’t just acquiring real estate. I was declaring war on my own family.
I just didn’t know when the first battle would happen.
That winter, I learned what the burden meant.
Christmas Eve 2018, my family rented a chalet in Vermont. They invited me in the passive-aggressive way where they knew I couldn’t afford the “shared cost,” so they could feel generous without having to include me.
“Oh, such a shame you can’t make it, Rowan,” Mom said. “We’ll send pictures.”
While they posted selfies by a fire with #winterwonderland, I stood in the basement of a three-family on Third Street at two in the morning because the boiler had quit.
A tenant called, whispering panic: radiator screaming, water on the floor.
I met the emergency plumber—Dave, Nana’s guy of twenty years—in the freezing basement. Water sprayed from a cracked valve. My breath fogged. My boots soaked.
“She’s done, kid,” Dave said. “I can patch tonight, but you need a whole new system.”
“How much?” I asked, flashlight shaking in my hand.
“Patch: six hundred. New system: four grand.”
Four thousand dollars. My personal account had maybe twelve hundred.
The trust account had rent from twelve buildings.
“Do it,” I said. “Patch now. Install Tuesday.”
Dave nodded. “You’re the boss.”
I held the flashlight for three hours while he wrenched and cursed. I was exhausted, numb, filthy—and oddly proud.
This was real. Not champagne towers. Not branding. Not performance.
A real problem. A real solution. A family upstairs warm because I made a decision.
At five a.m., back in my studio apartment, I checked my phone.
A text from Mom: picture of prime rib.
Dinner is served. So sad you’re missing this. Maybe next year if you save up.
I stared at my grease-stained hands.
“I saved four thousand today,” I whispered to the empty room. “I just didn’t spend it on meat.”
The teacher was still alive then.
But the landlord had been born.
Part 3
From 2019 through late 2022, I became an expert in camouflage.
Most people try to hide poverty to look rich.
I hid wealth to look struggling.
Every morning, I woke up in my small apartment, drove my rattling Honda to school, and taught literature to teenagers who pretended they didn’t care while secretly hoping someone would notice their effort. I wore thrifted cardigans. I ate foil-wrapped sandwiches for lunch. I lived like someone with nothing because in my family, having nothing kept you safe.
At night and on weekends, I became someone else entirely.
I was the person who negotiated roof replacements. The person who attended zoning hearings. The person who learned how to read inspection reports like stories. The person who met contractors at dawn and tenants at dusk.
Gross rent from twelve buildings: about twenty-two thousand a month.
After taxes, insurance, maintenance, and the aggressive repair schedule Nana insisted on, net was around fifteen thousand a month.
I didn’t spend it on myself.
Not once.
While Kylie leased a BMW she couldn’t afford and my parents funded trips they posted like proof of happiness, I sat at my kitchen table with a calculator deciding between replacing windows on Elm Street or upgrading the electrical panel on North End.
I chose windows. Twelve thousand dollars. Wrote the check without blinking.
The hardest part wasn’t the work.
It was the logistics of the lie.
My family assumed Nana still ran things, or that Mr. Thorne handled everything. They didn’t want to know about leaky roofs or tenant screening. They just wanted the concept of inheritance—magic money they could harvest later.
I became Nana’s runner.
Every Sunday, I went to her house for dinner. While sauce simmered, I went through mail, sorted tax notices, insurance letters, city permits. I took the paperwork home and paid bills from the trust.
If Dad ever asked, “How’s Nana’s business holding up?” I’d shrug and say, “Mr. Thorne’s handling it.”
Dad would nod, relieved. “Good. Don’t get distracted. You need your tenure.”
The irony would have been funny if it didn’t hurt.
I had more in trust reserves than my father had in his entire retirement plan, but he lectured me like I was a reckless child.
There were close calls.
Summer 2021, real estate prices went feral. Uncle S, who fancied himself savvy because he watched cable news, started making noise at a Fourth of July barbecue.
“Gary,” he said to Dad, waving a hot dog, “that Federal Hill triple-decker? You could get eight hundred thousand for it right now. Cash. As-is.”
Dad’s eyes lit up like a slot machine. “You think so?”
“I know so. Sell one. Test the market.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
If they tried to sell, the title search would reveal the trust. My name as trustee. My name as owner.
I intervened.
“I don’t know,” I said casually, flipping chicken wings. “That block has zoning issues. And I heard the foundation has cracks. Might be a hard sell without repairs.”
It was a lie. The foundation was solid; I’d repointed the masonry myself.
But my audience hated effort.
Dad frowned. “Repairs? I’m not paying for repairs.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Better to wait. You don’t want to get lowballed.”
Dad nodded, greed dampened by the idea of actual work. “Rowan’s right,” he announced. “We’ll wait until Mom passes. Then we can sell clean.”
Sell clean.
Gut the place. Push out tenants. Cash out.
I walked away from the grill with my hands shaking.
The masquerade wasn’t just privacy. It was a siege.
I was holding the gates while the wolves circled, waiting for Nana to die.
By 2022, Kylie’s façade started cracking.
Lux Life imploded. Vendors sued. Credit cards maxed. A “consulting arm” that existed only in captions.
The tension peaked at Sunday dinner one October.
Mom’s voice was tight. “Kylie has an exciting pivot.”
Kylie flipped her hair. “Real estate staging. I have the eye. I just need capital to buy inventory.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Twenty thousand,” she said quickly. “Just a bridge loan.”
Silence.
Dad stared at his lasagna. “I can’t. The market is down.”
Mom’s gaze swung to me, entitlement sharpened. “Rowan, you don’t have many expenses. You drive that old car. You must have savings.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m on a teacher’s salary.”
Kylie slammed her hand on the table. “You’re selfish. You hoard your little paycheck while I’m trying to build an empire.”
“Kylie,” I said, voice flat, “you’re being sued.”
“That’s a misunderstanding!” she shrieked, then turned toward Nana’s unseen “assets” like a starving animal.
“We should sell one building,” she snapped. “Pine Street. It’s ugly.”
My blood went cold.
Pine Street was beautiful. I’d spent six months restoring its woodwork.
“Nana is not selling,” I said sharply.
“Why not?” Kylie demanded. “She’s eighty-four. Sell one. Give me an advance on my inheritance.”
“It’s not an inheritance,” I said. “It’s her life.”
Kylie stood up, shaking with rage. “You’re a jealous, small-minded teacher who wants everyone poor. When Nana dies and I’m in charge, things will be different.”
She stormed out.
Mom glared at me. Dad poured wine. Nana said nothing.
Later, tucking Nana into bed, she winked slowly.
“Hold the line,” she whispered. “Do not let them break you.”
I promised I wouldn’t.
But desperation was rising.
And desperate people don’t ask politely.
They take.
Part 4
Spring 2023 thawed Rhode Island’s ground but froze something in my chest I couldn’t shake.
Nana Lucia began to fade.
It started small—forgetting a tenant’s name, leaving the stove on. Then late April, the call came while I was mid-lecture on Hamlet: Nana collapsed in her garden.
I beat the ambulance to the hospital.
I expected my family there. They lived ten minutes closer than I did.
The waiting room was empty.
I sat alone for two hours before my father finally strolled in, not running, checking his watch. Mom trailed behind him complaining about hospital parking.
“Is she stable?” Dad asked the triage nurse, not me.
“She’s in ICU,” I said. “Minor stroke. She’s conscious but weak.”
“Great,” Mom sighed, dropping into a chair. “Does insurance cover ICU or is this coming out of the estate?”
I stared at her. “She’s alive.”
“I’m being practical,” Mom snapped. “Care facilities are expensive. We need to protect the assets.”
They didn’t go see her immediately. They argued about power of attorney in the hallway.
In the ICU, Nana looked small in the bed, monitors beeping. Her face was pale, but her eyes were open.
“The wolves,” she whispered. “Are they here?”
“Outside,” I said, taking her hand. “Worrying about parking.”
A tear leaked from the corner of her eye. “Don’t let them sell.”
“I won’t,” I promised. “I’m the wall.”
For two weeks, I lived a double life more exhausting than ever: teaching by day, properties by afternoon, sleeping in a chair beside Nana’s bed by night.
My family visited sporadically. Photo ops. Kylie held Nana’s hand long enough for a selfie captioned Praying for my angel #familyfirst and left for brunch.
They asked doctors not about recovery, but about timeline.
“How long until we know?” Dad kept saying.
They meant end-of-life decisions.
They were checking their watches.
The breaking point wasn’t just their callousness.
It was theft.
When I went to Nana’s house to gather discharge documents, I sorted her personal mail at her kitchen table. Her checking statement sat on top. I opened it.
Withdrawal: $2,000 cash.
Another: $3,000 cash.
Then a check to cash: $45,000.
My stomach dropped.
Nana hadn’t left the house in March. She hadn’t been to the bank.
I logged into her online banking. I had her passwords because I set it up for her.
I clicked the check image.
The signature said Lucia Romano, but it wasn’t Nana’s hand. The “L” looped too much. The slant was wrong.
I recognized that loop.
Kylie.
I went through six months of statements.
Total missing: $25,000.
Twenty-five thousand stolen from an eighty-five-year-old woman in ICU.
I called Mr. Thorne immediately.
“I need forensic accounting on Nana’s personal account,” I said, voice trembling with rage.
“What did you find?” Thorne asked.
“Kylie’s been forging checks,” I said. “Draining Nana’s savings.”
“Do you want a police report?” Thorne’s voice shifted into legal sharpness.
I looked at the check image.
“Not yet,” I said coldly.
“If we file now,” I continued, “they’ll lawyer up. Claim Nana gave permission. Drag it out. No. They’re planning a meeting about the estate. Let them. Let them lay out their plan. Let them think they’ve won.”
Thorne was silent for a beat, then: “Understood. I’ll prepare a binder.”
I saved the check image into a folder labeled Evidence.
The teacher in me wanted to cry.
The granddaughter was grieving.
The landlord was ready to evict.
In August, my phone pinged with the family group chat—a chat I’d muted for years.
Mom: Sunday, August 20th, 1 p.m. Our house. Mandatory attendance.
Dad: Topic: estate transition and asset liquidation. No excuses.
Kylie: I have ideas. Market research. House money with wings.
Asset liquidation.
They weren’t hiding it anymore.
I walked into Nana’s room. She was awake, staring at the bird feeder I’d set up by the window.
“They called the meeting,” I told her gently.
Nana turned her head slowly. Her speech was mostly gone now, but her mind was still steel. She reached for the notepad we used to communicate and wrote one word with a shaking hand.
Justice.
I kissed her forehead.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll bring you justice.”
Part 5
Sunday, August 20th arrived humid and heavy, the air thick like it was holding its own breath.
I didn’t wear my usual cardigan. I pulled a charcoal suit from the back of my closet—the one I’d bought for court days and contractor negotiations. I tied my hair into a tight bun. I put on heels.
In the mirror, I didn’t look like Ms. Romano, the quiet teacher.
I looked like the person who signed checks and held keys.
I drove my Honda to my parents’ house for what I knew would be the last time. The driveway was packed. Kylie’s leased Mercedes sat crooked. Uncle S’s truck. Cousins’ cars.
I walked in without knocking.
The living room had been rearranged. Coffee table pushed aside. Folding chairs in rows facing the television, which was connected to Kylie’s laptop.
It looked like a shareholder meeting for a failing company.
“You’re here,” Mom said, eyes narrowing at my suit. “Why are you dressed like that? You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
“Just came from church,” I lied smoothly. “Thought I’d stay formal.”
“Well, sit in the back,” Dad waved. “Kylie has a presentation.”
I took a seat next to my younger cousin Maya. She was nineteen, smart, and the only other person in the family who saw through the nonsense. She leaned toward me and whispered, “Can you believe they made a PowerPoint?”
“Watch and learn,” I whispered back.
Dad stood at the front and cleared his throat.
“As you know, Mom isn’t doing well,” he began, as if Nana wasn’t still breathing. “She has a significant portfolio of assets being underutilized. Today we’ll discuss the plan for the Romano estate.”
He gestured to Kylie.
Kylie stood, laser pointer in hand, beaming as she clicked her first slide.
Project Freedom: maximizing the legacy
“Okay, guys,” Kylie started in her influencer voice. “Grandma has twelve properties. Based on Zillow, total value is around five million.”
A murmur of excitement rippled through the room. Uncle S licked his lips.
“However,” Kylie continued, “managing tenants is gross. Toilets. Repairs. Who wants that? So my proposal is simple. We liquidate eight buildings immediately.” She clicked to a map of Providence with red X’s over properties I knew like my own hands.
“I have a contact at a development firm,” Kylie said. “Cash offer. Below market, but fast. We take three million and split it.”
“And the other four?” Uncle S asked.
“We keep the four nicest,” Kylie smiled. “I manage them. Luxury Airbnbs. Lux stays with Kylie. Passive income. Huge.”
Maya raised her hand. “What about the tenants? Some have lived there twenty years.”
Kylie shrugged. “Thirty days’ notice. Progress is painful.”
My stomach tightened.
They were talking about evicting Mrs. Silva like she was trash.
Dad stepped in again. “To make this happen, I’m petitioning for emergency guardianship. I need everyone to sign agreement forms. It expedites the judge.”
Clipboards circulated. When it reached me, Dad didn’t even hand me a pen.
“You don’t really need to sign, Rowan,” he said dismissively. “This is for major stakeholders. But you can sign as a witness.”
“Major stakeholders?” I repeated, voice carrying.
Kylie laughed. “Rowan, you’re a teacher. You don’t know real estate.”
The room chuckled.
I stood up.
No smile. No apology.
I walked to the front and stood between Kylie and the projector screen, letting the light wash over me.
“Actually,” I said calmly, “I have a question about slide two.”
Mom hissed, “Sit down.”
“No,” I said. “Slide two values Federal Hill at four hundred thousand. Interesting, because the appraisal came in at six-fifty last week after I replaced the roof and updated the electrical.”
Kylie frowned. “What? Why would you—”
“And Pine Street,” I continued, “you want Airbnbs? Zoning denied short-term permits three months ago. I know because I attended the hearing.”
Silence dropped.
Dad stared at me. “How do you know that?”
I reached into my blazer pocket and sent one text.
“Because,” I said, looking at him, “I’m the one who pays the property taxes. I’m the one who hires contractors. I’m the one who kicks out squatters.”
Kylie scoffed. “Please.”
“Did anyone here,” I asked, scanning the room, “check the county registry of deeds? Title search? Anything? In the last five years?”
Dad’s face went pale. “What are you talking about?”
The front door opened.
Heavy footsteps echoed.
Mr. Thorne walked in carrying a leather briefcase and went straight to the coffee table. He moved Mom’s cookie tray aside and set the briefcase down with a thud.
“My name is Robert Thorne,” he announced. “Attorney for the Romano Family Trust.”
Dad sputtered. “Mom never set up a trust.”
“She did,” Thorne said calmly. “March 12th, 2018.”
He pulled out a stamped deed. “Elm Street. Transferred to the trust.”
Another deed. “Federal Hill. Transferred.”
Another. Another. Twelve in total, fanned out like a royal flush.
“All twelve properties,” Thorne said, “were transferred out of Lucia Romano’s name five years ago. Not part of her estate. Not subject to probate. Not available for liquidation by her son.”
Kylie shrieked, “Who controls the trust?”
Thorne produced one final document.
“Sole trustee and beneficiary,” he said, pointing at me. “Rowan Romano.”
The room went silent in the way it does after a bomb.
My mother stared at me like she couldn’t breathe.
“You,” Dad whispered. “You’ve owned them for five years?”
“Yes,” I said steadily. “While you vacationed, I replaced boilers. While Kylie launched fake businesses, I screened tenants. While you ignored Nana, I protected her legacy.”
Kylie lunged forward, screaming, “You stole them!”
Thorne stepped between us. “Mrs. Romano was competent in 2018. We have video. Two doctors’ statements. Five years of flawless management.”
I looked at my father. “You wanted to cash out Nana’s life work to fund your retirement and Kylie’s mistakes. You called me useless because I drove an old car. That old car was parked at hardware stores every weekend while you golfed.”
Mom switched into her syrupy voice. “Sweetie, we can work this out. You can’t manage all this alone. We can bring Kylie in as a consultant—”
I laughed, cold. “Kylie? A consultant?”
I looked at Thorne. “Red folder.”
He pulled out the red folder and slid it to my father.
“What is this?” Dad asked, trembling.
“Nana’s personal checking records,” I said.
Dad flipped pages. Highlighted withdrawals. Checks to cash. Then the check image with the forged signature.
“Kylie,” Dad whispered. “What is this?”
Kylie’s face crumpled. “I needed it. Nana said I could borrow—she forgot.”
“She was in ICU,” I said. “That handwriting isn’t hers.”
Kylie sobbed. “I was going to pay it back when we sold the buildings.”
“With her own money?” I asked. “That’s not paying it back.”
Thorne placed one sheet on the table.
“Confession of judgment,” I said. “You sign. Five hundred a month until every cent is returned. Miss a payment or fight this trust, and I take this to the district attorney.”
Mom gasped. “You wouldn’t put your sister in jail!”
“And Nana was her grandmother,” I snapped, voice finally cracking. “She stole from a dying woman. Where was your outrage?”
Silence.
Dad whispered, defeated, “Sign it, Kylie.”
Kylie scribbled her name through tears.
Thorne slipped the paper back into his briefcase.
I grabbed my purse.
“This meeting is adjourned,” I said. “Don’t come to my house. Don’t visit Nana. If you need updates, Mr. Thorne will email you.”
Mom cried, “You’re destroying this family!”
I stopped at the door and looked back at the people who’d spent my whole life making me feel small.
“I didn’t destroy this family,” I said quietly. “I just turned on the lights. You’re the ones who can’t stand what you see.”
I walked out.
My Honda started with its familiar screech-chunk.
For the first time, it sounded like victory.
Part 6
The fallout was immediate and ugly.
Kylie didn’t just lose the fantasy of an inheritance windfall. She lost oxygen. Creditors came fast once they realized there would be no family bailout. The leased Mercedes disappeared within weeks. She moved into my parents’ basement—the same basement she used to mock me for escaping.
My parents tried to launch a smear campaign with extended family. They called aunts, cousins, old friends, insisting I’d manipulated Nana and stolen a birthright.
But they forgot one thing.
I held the deeds.
And in families like mine, people follow the money more faithfully than they follow truth.
Uncle S called me a week later.
Not to yell. To negotiate.
“I know things are messy with your dad,” he said, voice sheepish, “but business is business. You still need maintenance work, right?”
Business is business. The phrase Dad had used for years to justify cruelty.
“Yes,” I said. “Business is business. You charge fair market rates and you follow my rules, or I hire someone else.”
“Deal,” Uncle S said instantly.
Just like that, the family fell in line.
Nana passed away three weeks after the meeting.
She died in her sleep in the guest room of my apartment with the window cracked so she could hear the birds. I held her hand when she took her last breath. She didn’t look afraid. She looked… finished, like she’d done what she came to do.
I didn’t cry immediately.
I felt peace.
She’d held on long enough to see the line drawn. She knew her legacy was safe.
The funeral was awkward.
My parents sat on one side of the aisle. I sat on the other. They cried loudly for the audience. I wore my charcoal suit and stood still, because grief doesn’t always look like tears.
After the service, Maya—my nineteen-year-old cousin—walked up to me.
“That was badass,” she whispered. “What you did.”
“It wasn’t about being badass,” I said. “It was about doing the job.”
Maya hesitated. “Can I work for you? I want to learn. Not Kylie’s fake influencer stuff. Real stuff.”
I looked at her and saw myself at twenty-four—terrified, determined.
“Meet me Monday,” I said. “Bring work boots. We’re inspecting a foundation.”
Two years passed.
I don’t drive the Honda anymore. I drive a Ford F-150. Not flashy. Practical. Good for hauling drywall and lumber.
The trust grew. I bought property thirteen last month—a distressed foreclosure Dad would’ve sneered at. I’m renovating it now.
My parents and I don’t speak. Last I heard, Dad came out of “retirement” to consult part-time because they couldn’t sustain their lifestyle without the inheritance they’d already spent in their heads.
Kylie works as a receptionist at a car dealership.
She pays five hundred a month, every month, as ordered.
I don’t keep the money.
I donate her checks to an elder abuse prevention charity.
Not out of spite.
Out of principle.
Yesterday, I stood on the roof of the Federal Hill house at sunset, looking out over Providence. Triple-deckers glowed warm in the late light. Smoke curled from chimneys. Someone somewhere was cooking dinner, safe under a roof my grandparents bought and I maintained.
I thought about Nana. I thought about the wolves.
They wanted the harvest, but despised the dirt.
They wanted the title, but hated the work.
I lived in the dirt for five years. I learned the dirt is where value is born. The dirt is honest.
My phone buzzed.
Maya: Tenant in 4B says the sink is leaking.
On my way, I typed back.
Then I smiled.
The empire was in good hands.
I am not the invisible granddaughter anymore.
I am Rowan Romano.
I don’t need their applause.
My tenants sleep safe tonight.
And my mother, cold as a drawer full of silver, finally learned the one thing she should’ve known all along:
You can’t divide what isn’t yours.
