“Miss Cole,” my parents’ lawyer asked, “do you love your parents?”
I blinked. I hadn’t expected that question.
“I do not recognize them as my parents,” I answered directly. “And it’s not because of hatred… but because they never fulfilled that role even once.”
I looked back at them. My mother was immaculately dressed—pearls, a white dress, an elegant smile. My father was slumped, pretending to be wounded.
“And even so,” I added, “I didn’t turn them away when they first tried to make contact after my Grandpa passed away. But they didn’t approach me because they loved me. They approached me because they smelled money.”
A suppressed sob escaped from behind me. Celeste. But those weren’t tears of remorse—they were tears of defeat.
After three weeks of hearings, the verdict arrived.
Silence filled the room. Only the ticking of the clock could be heard until the judge spoke.
“Based on the overwhelming evidence, this court finds no undue influence. The will stands. All assets remain legally and solely to Miss Marinella Cole.”
I felt like I was bathed in light.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just stood there as my lawyer thanked me and well-wishers in the gallery congratulated me.
On the side of the room, I saw my parents.
Celeste had her back turned, holding her head. Gavin was silent, staring at the floor. Neither of them approached me. Neither of them attempted to apologize.
And I stopped looking for it.
As I walked out of the courtroom, carrying the weight and the lightness of my past, I seemed to hear the voice of Grandpa Franklin:
“My child, you were never lacking.”
I stopped outside the court, took a deep breath, and faced the sun.
I may not have known them as parents, but I knew the right kind of love—the kind of love that isn’t measured by bloodline, but by the choice to stay.
And that is an inheritance that no one can ever take away.