My parents told me «You’re adopted, you get nothing when we die.» Then grandma’s lawyer called: «She left you $2 million… and a letter about your parents’ lies.» I drove to their house with a smile…

Margaret smiled grimly. Your grandmother led them to believe they would receive the bulk of her estate. She’d encouraged this belief.

She wanted them to spend money they didn’t have, thinking they’d be able to pay it back with their inheritance. How much money did they spend? Based on what your grandmother told me and what the investigator observed, quite a lot. Your father bought a new truck last year, $65,000.

Your mother remodeled their kitchen, another $40,000. Your brother Logan got a boat for his birthday, $30,000. They’ve been living well above their means.

I thought about my own life during that same period, working 50 hours a week at the auto parts store, taking night classes at community college, living on peanut butter sandwiches and instant coffee, while my family was spending my grandmother’s money before they even had it. I was struggling to pay for basic necessities. What exactly did they inherit? I asked.

Margaret consulted her papers. Each of your siblings received $5,000. Your parents received nothing.

Nothing. Nothing. Your grandmother was very clear that David had forfeited his right to inherit when he chose his new wife over his own son.

I sat back in my chair, trying to process everything. $2 million. A house.

The truth about my identity and my family, who had treated me like garbage for 21 years, had been cut out entirely. There’s one more thing Margaret said. Your grandmother requested that I be present when you inform your family about the inheritance.

She wanted a witness to their reaction. That’s how I found myself driving to my parents’ house the next evening with a lawyer in my passenger seat and a cashier’s check for $2.1 million in my jacket pocket. I hadn’t been to the house in over a year, not since my father told me I was too old to be looking for handouts.

When I asked to borrow money for textbooks, the house looked the same from the outside. Upper-middle-class suburban perfection with a new truck in the driveway and perfectly manicured landscaping. Susan answered the door, and her expression immediately soured when she saw me.

Austin, what are you doing here? We need to talk, I said. All of us. It’s about Grandma Eleanor’s will.

Her expression shifted to something calculating. Oh well, I suppose you should come in. She led us into the living room, where my father was watching TV and my siblings, Logan and Ashley, were on their phones.

The room had been redecorated since my last visit, new furniture, new paint, new expensive-looking artwork on the walls. David, Susan called, Austin’s here about Eleanor’s will. My father looked up, and I could see the exact moment he noticed Margaret Stevens in her professional suit carrying a briefcase.

Who’s this, he asked. Margaret Stevens, she said, extending her hand. I was Mrs. Eleanor Caldwell’s attorney.

Everyone suddenly paid attention. Logan put down his phone. Ashley looked up from her Instagram…