Love's Prison

My words were a bomb, setting off Lisa and Lauren completely.

“Half?” Lauren was the first to leap up, jabbing a finger in my face. “You want *half*? Brooklyn, have you no shame! That’s your father’s death benefit—for his *wife*! What’s it got to do with *you*?”

“She’s right!” Lisa chimed in instantly. “I’m his legal wife. That money is mine by right! Letting you go work was charity enough, and now you’re pushing your luck?”

They tag-teamed me, a two-woman chorus painting me as the villain.

Around us, relatives whispered.

Most shot me reproachful looks, as if to say, *How could you do this to your own mother?*

This was their play—smothering me beneath the banner of “family duty.”

“True, you’re his wife,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “But don’t forget, I’m still his only daughter. The law of succession is clear: first-order heirs are spouse, children, and parents. My grandparents are gone. That means the money is split between you and me. Fifty-fifty.”

My dad worked construction, but he always told me: a girl needs to study, needs to know the law to protect herself. Only now did I understand how much those words mattered.

“You…” Lisa choked, her face flushing an ugly, deep red.

Seeing his moment, Raymond cleared his throat, adopting a tone of grave concern. “Brooklyn, must family fight like this? Money can be discussed. How about this: your mother gets two hundred and fifty thousand, and you get fifty as a goodwill gesture. Fifty thousand is enough to see you through university.”

Pure condescension—as if he were bestowing some great favor.

Fifty grand?

Tuition, room and board, living expenses for four years—how could that possibly be enough?

Besides, this was my rightful share. Why should I take their “goodwill” like a beggar?

“I want one-fifty. My fair share.” I didn’t budge.

“One hundred and fifty thousand? You might as well rob a bank!” Lauren shrieked.

“I’m not robbing anyone. I’m taking what’s mine.”

The talk blew up and went nowhere.

Lisa left me with a final threat. “Mark my words, Brooklyn—you won’t get a single cent! Go ahead, sue me if you dare!”

With that, she and Raymond strode out.

I knew it then. The war had officially begun.