In his hands, Michael held a thick stack of documents, each page a testament to truths long buried beneath our family’s polished veneer. The papers trembled slightly in his grip, but his voice never wavered. “This ends now,” he declared, his gaze locked on my father and sister.
The room felt suspended, like the very air had frozen in anticipation. Guests who had risen stood still, hands half-raised, unsure whether to intervene or step back. My father’s fury shifted to confusion as he stared at the documents, then back at Michael.
“What’s this supposed to mean?” my father blustered, his voice not as strong as before.
