The hallway outside the delivery room smelled of disinfectant, mixed with something heavier, like lingering fear. I sat next to Jake, my sister’s husband. We were close, but it felt like miles apart. He kept rubbing his hands over his jeans.
“No screams… maybe things went well?” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Or maybe the opposite,” Jake replied, staring at the floor.
The nurse finally called us in. Inside, everything was white, machines beeped softly, and there was Emily, holding a tiny baby. He was beautiful, small, and perfect.
“He’s beautiful,” I whispered.
“He’s named Martin,” Emily said.
I froze. “Martin?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“I named my son Martin,” I said, taken aback.
She shrugged. “Lots of boys are named Martin.”
The weeks passed, and we barely saw each other. Then one night, Emily called. “Mom’s gone,” she said, her voice quiet. “She passed in her sleep.”
The next day, Emily and I met with Mom’s lawyer. “The house is to go to her grandson, Martin,” he said. But there was a catch — it wasn’t clear which Martin.
I confronted Emily, accusing her of naming her son Martin to claim the house. She denied it, but things got heated.
Later, I found a note from Mom that matched the handwriting on the will, but something was off. Mr. Howard confirmed my suspicions: the will had been forged.
Emily confessed. “I lived with her, I earned the house,” she said, but I knew she had crossed a line.
“You tried to steal it,” I replied.
She stormed off, and I sat in the silence, vowing to fix this for Mom.
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