I came back from my sister’s funeral. My daughter was laughing in my room, trying to steal my house with fake medical papers. I took her red-handed.

I had buried my sister that morning. And now I was staring at my daughter—laughing, calm, prepared—who was about to bury me in turn.

I asked Amanda to sit down. She refused. That was enough for me.

« It’s for your own good, » she said, pacing my room as if it already belonged to her. « You’re getting older. We forget things. Home is too much responsibility. »

I laughed once, curtly. « You mean it’s precious. »

She stopped pacing. « It’s convenient. »

I went downstairs, the documents still in hand, and she followed me, her tone oscillating between defensive and condescending. At the kitchen table, I spread out the papers and photographed each page with my phone.

« What are you doing? » she asked curtly.

« Protect myself. »