My daughter took me to court for $600,000 in inheritance. She pointed at me and said, “My mother is sick—she’s been mentally ill for years.”

“Exactly.”

Michael sat back down. “There’s one more thing. The deposition is scheduled for January 10th. Connor will try to portray you as confused, grief-stricken, unable to manage your own affairs.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Answer his questions, but don’t elaborate. If he asks about your work, tell him you worked in management. If he asks about your retirement, tell him Thomas wanted more time together. Be truthful, but don’t volunteer information he doesn’t specifically request.”

I understood. “He’ll assume I’m just a bank employee, not a fraud investigator.”

“And when we get to trial,” Michael said, “we’ll show him exactly who you are.”

I smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile.

“Connor Hayes is going to underestimate me,” I said. “Not because he didn’t look—because he looked at the wrong things.”

Michael extended his hand, not as a lawyer to a client, but as a partner. I shook it.

“Let’s destroy them,” he said.

The deposition took place in a sterile conference room in Connor Hayes’s San Antonio office. Fluorescent lights. Beige walls. A court reporter sat in the corner with her stenography machine. Connor sat across from me, polished and confident. Amanda attended via video conference, her face filling a monitor on the side table. Michael sat beside me, calm and watchful.

Connor began with the standard questions—name, address, date of birth. Then he shifted to my mental state.

“Mrs. Henderson, how have you been coping since your husband’s death?”

I paused, letting my hands tremble slightly on the table. “It’s been very difficult. Some days I can barely get out of bed.”

“I understand. Can you tell me about your work history?”

I looked down as if gathering my thoughts. “I worked at Community Trust Bank for a long time.”

“Can you be more specific about your role?”

“I was in management. Operations. Compliance. Things like that.”

Connor leaned forward. “What was your exact title?”

I hesitated, rubbing my temple. “It changed over the years. I’m not sure I remember all the details. It’s been hard to think clearly since Thomas.” My voice trailed off. I dabbed at my eyes with a tissue.

Connor’s expression softened, sensing victory.

“Did your work involve direct customer service?”

“Sometimes. I helped people. I tried to help people.”

“And you retired in 2022?”

“Yes. Thomas wanted us to have more time together.” My voice cracked. “And now he’s gone.”

On the video monitor, Amanda dabbed at her own eyes, performing grief for the camera.

Connor glanced at his notes. “Mrs. Henderson, do you feel capable of managing your late husband’s estate? It’s substantial—over $600,000.”

I looked at Michael as if seeking guidance. He gave me a small nod.

“I… I don’t know. The numbers are so big. Thomas always handled the finances.”

Connor exchanged a satisfied glance with someone off camera. “Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. I think we have everything we need.”

The deposition ended. The court reporter packed up her equipment. Connor stood, already drafting his next motion in his mind.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I straightened in my chair. The trembling hands stilled. The tears dried. My voice returned to its normal, clear tone.