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while my son, Victor, stood closer, too close, his presence heavy and impatient, his jaw tight in the way it always became when money entered the conversation.
“I’m not transferring the inheritance early,” I said, keeping my voice even. “The house is sold. The funds are already allocated.”
“You’re making a mistake,” she replied softly, each word sharpened with intention. “You won’t like how this ends.”
Victor exhaled sharply and stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the rug toward me. “Mom, stop pretending this is about responsibility,” he said. “You don’t need that much. You live alone. What are you protecting it for?”
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