I see waves crashing against the shore of Daytona Beach—a sound that has become my daily companion for the past three years. Seventy-five is the age when you begin to appreciate consistency. My home is only three blocks from the ocean. Small but cozy. I’ve never aspired to luxury, though I could afford it. Saving money has been second nature to me since my youth, when my parents were barely making ends meet.

My name is Rupert Glover. Three years when the only sound in the house was my voice talking to the pictures of Hilda spread throughout the rooms. Morning coffee would never again taste as good as it did when made by her hands. Hilda was my anchor, my compass, my north star. She had a knack for making the house a place I wanted to return to. Unlike our daughter Prudence—or Pru, as she prefers to be called. Pru is forty-seven years old and is the complete opposite of everything Hilda and I believed in. We taught her the value of knowledge, labor, and thrift. Instead, she grew up with the belief that the world owed her everything by birthright.

I stood up from the veranda chair, feeling a familiar ache in my knees. Arthritis is the inevitable companion of old age. The inside of the house was almost exactly the same as it had been when Hilda was there. I hadn’t found the energy to change things, although the therapist I’d seen since her death had strongly recommended it. “Renew your environment, Professor Glover. It will help you move on,” she used to say. But how can you move on when half your heart is in the past?

I sank into the chair by the window where I always sat checking student papers and looked at my phone. Pru hadn’t called in two weeks, which was atypical. She usually showed up every week like a schedule, not to ask about my health or to tell me about her children—my grandchildren, whom I’d only seen on Christmas cards—but to ask for money. The last time, it was to pay for repairs to her new SUV. Before that, it was for an urgent kitchen makeover. And before that, for a vital vacation to the Bahamas because she needed to recuperate from stress at work. It’s amazing how being a coordinator at a real estate firm can be so stressful.

Every time I gave in, each time, I saw the disappointment in Hilda’s eyes in the pictures around me.

“You’re too soft on her, Rupert,” she often said.

And each time I replied, “She’s our daughter, Hilda. Who will help her if not us?”

But Hilda’s gone, and I am beginning to realize that she was right. My giving in didn’t help Pru. It only reinforced her belief that she was entitled to my money.

My gaze fell on a bookshelf where an old shabby atlas of Europe stood. I reached over and took it down, flipping through the bookmarked pages—evidence of the evenings spent with Hilda planning the trip we’d always put off. First because of Pru’s birth, then my career, then Pru’s college, then her wedding. There was always a reason to put off our dreams for another year, another five years, and now Hilda’s gone, and I’m left alone with savings we never spent on ourselves.

I’m seventy-five years old. My knees are hurting more and more, and the doctor recently noticed something suspicious on my last lung X-ray.

“Nothing serious, Professor Glover, but worth watching,” he said.

But I’ve lived long enough to know: time is not on my side.

At that moment, looking at the bookmarks in the atlas marking Paris, Rome, Venice, and Prague, I made a decision. I’m going on this trip—alone, for Hilda and for myself—while I still can.

The planning took two weeks. I contacted travel agent Esther Quintland, an elderly lady who specialized in tours for the older generation. Together, we put together an itinerary for the month. Comfortable, but including all the cities Hilda and I dreamed of visiting.

“It will cost you about $35,000, Mr. Glover, taking into account good hotels and individual excursions,” Esther said, slightly nervous about the amount.

“That’s money to spend, Esther,” I replied with a phrase I’d never uttered before. “Book everything. I want to go in a month.”

When I got home from my meeting with Esther, Pru was there waiting for me. She was her look always said, “Why don’t you move into a nursing home and give this house to me?”

“I’m planning a trip around Europe.”

I braced myself for her reaction.

“Traveling at your age? Alone?” She laughed as if I’d said something absurd.

“Yes, Pru—at my age. And yes, alone, since your mom unfortunately can’t keep me company.”

I rarely let sarcasm creep into my voice, but today it was hard to hold back.

Pru ignored the mention of her mother and made her way into the living room, sinking into my chair—the same one where I read every night.

“And how much is this going to cost?”

There it was, the question that always interested her most.

“About $35,000,” I answered honestly.

The expression on her face changed instantly—shock, then anger.

“Thirty-five thousand? You’re going to spend $35,000 on tourism?” She said the last word as if she were talking about something obscene.

“Yes, Pru, I am. It’s a trip your mother and I have dreamed of for forty years. It’s worth it.”

“But this—this is crazy. You’re seventy-five years old, Dad. Why spend so much money now?”

“Precisely because I’m seventy-five and I don’t know how much time I have left.”

“That’s selfish. You could have—”

“Could have what? Give that money to you?”

I was surprised at my own bluntness.

Pru blushed, but not with shame—with anger. “I’m your daughter. I have kids who need to pay for college, and you’re going to throw away $35,000 on a trip you might not even come back from.”

“My grandchildren aren’t even in high school yet, Pru. They’re at least six years away from college, and I’m paying for their private school tuition—in case you’ve forgotten.”

“That’s not the same thing. You’ve been saving all your life and for what? To squander it all before you die?”

Her words hit harder than I expected. At forty-seven, Pru was already planning my death and how she would dispose of my money.

“I’ve been saving to provide for my old age and help you get back on your feet. I paid for your college, your wedding, helped with the down payment on your house. I continue to help you every month. But that money is mine, Pru, and I have the right to spend some of it on things that matter to me.”

“But $35,000—that’s part of my inheritance.”

There it was. The word she never said outright, but which always hovered between us. Inheritance. My death as a financial gain.

“Your inheritance.” My voice went quiet, which only happened when I was truly angry. “Pru, you’re talking about the money I earned by saving from every paycheck, denying myself a new car or vacation so you could have everything you need. That money isn’t yours. It’ll be yours when I’m gone—if I so choose.”

“If you so choose?” Her voice rose an octave. “What does that mean? Are you threatening to disinherit me? For what? For worrying about you and your reckless spending?”

“You’re not worried about me, Pru. You’re worried about money.”

“How dare you! I come to visit you. I call you.”

“You come when you need money. You call when you need money. When was the last time you asked me how I was feeling? When was the last time you took me out to dinner or brought me grandchildren?”

Pru stood up, her face contorted with anger. “You old, ungrateful egomaniac. All your life you’ve been like that. Only your work, your books, your students mattered. Even Mom was in the background.”

This was too much. Mentioning Hilda in that context made me rise to my feet despite the pain in my knees.

“Don’t you dare talk about your mother like that. She’s always come first for me, and you know it.”

“Oh, really? Then why did you never take a trip to that lauded Europe in her lifetime? Because you were sorry for the money. And now that she’s dead, you suddenly decide to spend $35,000 on a trip. Where’s the logic, Dad?”

I clenched my fists, trying to contain my anger. “We put off the trip because we always put your needs first, Pru. College, the wedding, helping with the house—those things were more important than our dreams. Your mother and I decided that together. Don’t try to blame me for you and Mom not living life to the fullest. It was our choice.”

“Yes, our choice. Just like my current decision is my choice. I’m going on this journey, Pru—with or without your blessing.”

Pru looked at me for a few long seconds, then grabbed her purse. “Fine. Spend your money. But don’t come to me when you’re left penniless in a nursing home because you blew it all on stupid trips.”

“I’ve never come to you for money, Pru, and I won’t.”

“You know what? Maybe you should be declared incompetent. You’re obviously out of your mind if you’re willing to throw away that kind of money.”

She headed for the door.

“Those are empty threats, Pru. I’m sane, and any doctor will attest to that.”

She turned around in the doorway and her gaze burned through me. “We’ll see about that. I need that money more than you need it for your whims. It’s my inheritance and I won’t let you squander it.”

The door slammed shut with such force that Hilda’s picture on the wall swayed. I walked over and corrected it, looking into her kind eyes.

“What have we done, Hilda? Where have we gone wrong?” I whispered.

But the photograph was silent as always, and only Hilda’s eyes seemed to express the same sadness I felt. I turned back to the window and watched Pru drive away in her brand-new SUV that I’d helped her pay for three months ago. Thirty-five thousand for a trip seemed like a crazy expense to her, but sixty thousand for a premium car seemed like a perfectly reasonable investment.

At that moment, I made another decision. I’m not just going on this trip. I’m going to revise my will. Pru’s threats were out of line and I could no longer ignore the truth: my daughter only saw me as a moneybag.

The phone rang and Esther Quintland’s name popped up on the screen.

“Mr. Glover, good news. I’ve booked all the hotels for you and the flights are confirmed. You’ll be leaving on May 25th.”

“Thank you, Esther. That’s exactly what I need to hear right now.”

For the first time in the three years since Hilda’s death, I felt something akin to anticipation. I was going to realize our dream—albeit alone, but with her in my heart. And no amount of Pru’s threats could stop that from happening.

At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

After Pru left, I sat in silence for a long time, looking at the tattered atlas in my lap. My daughter’s threats echoed in my ears, but they didn’t shake my resolve. Rather, they strengthened it. In the morning, I called my longtime friend and attorney, Vernon Page, to set up an appointment to review the will. For the first time in years, I felt the need to protect myself from my own child.

I spent the next few days in pleasantries, preparing for the trip. I made a list of necessary items, updated my closet, buying a few lightweight shirts and comfortable shoes for long walks. My old suitcase, which had survived dozens of academic conferences, was retrieved from the pantry and thoroughly cleaned. At the bottom, I found an address tag in Hilda’s handwriting—a memory of our last trip to Boston together six years ago.

Going through the books I wanted to take with me, I came across an old photo album. I sat down on the couch and began flipping through the pages, traveling back in time. Here’s Pru, newborn, so tiny in Hilda’s arms. Here she is, three years old, laughing, sitting on my shoulders in the park. Here’s five-year-old Pru with an enthusiastic expression on her face, opening her Christmas present—a book of fairy tales that I myself read as a child.

When did it all go wrong?

I turned the page. Pru in elementary school, already with a scowl on her face, arms crossed over her chest. Standing next to her were the other kids—the children of doctors, lawyers, and businessmen—dressed in expensive clothes. Hilda and I had always tried to give Pru everything she needed but never indulged excessive whims.

“We’re teaching her to appreciate what she has rather than strive for what she doesn’t have,” Hilda would often say when Pru began to whine for another fancy toy or clothes like all the other kids.

Perhaps the problem began to form right then, in elementary school, where Pru compared herself to children from more affluent families. We lived modestly. The professor’s salary was never huge, and Hilda worked as a schoolteacher. We saved money rather than spending it on ostentatious luxuries. But it seems that for Pru, material possessions had become the measure of success and happiness too soon.

I continued flipping through the album. Pru’s adolescence was marked by constant arguments about money, clothes, and party permits. She began to call our house pathetic, our cars shabby, and our lifestyle boring. Hilda was hurt by these words more than I was. I saw education and knowledge as the main wealth and material possessions as secondary. Hilda, on the other hand, wanted her daughter to love her home and take pride in it.

College only exacerbated the problem. Pru chose a prestigious university, much more expensive than we could afford, but we didn’t want to limit her ambitions. We took out an additional mortgage on the house to pay for her tuition. Hilda took a second job. I took extra hours and summer courses. Our own trip to Europe was postponed again. But instead of gratitude, Pru would come home with stories of her friends’ lavish vacations, expensive cars, and fancy clothes she couldn’t afford. And each time, she looked at us as if we had personally deprived her of all that.

Turning another page of the album, I saw a picture from her college graduation—Pru in her gown between me and Hilda, with a strange smile. That day she told us, “I hope now I can finally live like a normal person.” It was a strange phrase, as if four years at an expensive college had been a deprivation rather than a privilege for her.

After college, she married Clarence Wit, a man with similarly material ambitions. Clarence worked in real estate and was always talking about great deals and new opportunities, but those opportunities never seemed to materialize into actual financial success. Nevertheless, they bought homes they couldn’t afford, cars they couldn’t afford, and sent their kids to elite private schools. And every time their pyramid scheme threatened to collapse, Pru came to us. First it was temporary loans, then it was “just help.” Then it turned into a monthly expectation that we supplement their income to support the lifestyle they chose for themselves.

Hilda was always against it, but I couldn’t say no to my only daughter.

“She’s our child, Hilda. We can’t let her suffer.”

“But we’re not helping her, Rupert,” Hilda replied. “We are encouraging irresponsibility. She will never learn to live within her means.”

Hilda was right, as always. And now, three years after her death, I was reaping the fruits of my weakness. Pru didn’t just expect my money—she considered it hers by right.

Closing the album, I walked to the window. My thoughts returned to my last conversation with my daughter. Her threats to declare me incompetent seemed empty. But what if she really tried? Would my own daughter really be willing to do such a thing just to get control of my finances?

I pulled out my cellphone and dialed Vernon. My old friend answered after the second ringtone.

“Vernon, it’s Rupert. I’d like to reschedule our meeting for an earlier date if possible. The situation may be more serious than I thought.”

Two days later, I was sitting in Vernon’s office telling him about my conversation with Pru. He listened attentively, taking notes and occasionally asking clarifying questions. When I finished, he took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose—a gesture I remembered from when we were students together.

“Rupert, I don’t want to scare you, but cases like this are not uncommon. Children try to gain control of their elderly parents’ finances, especially if there’s a significant amount involved. But to declare you incompetent, you need serious evidence: dementia, mental illness, inability to make rational decisions.”

“Which I don’t have,” I said confidently.

“Exactly. However, it’s worth preparing for. I recommend you get a full medical examination and a report on your mental state. That will be helpful if the case does go to trial.”

“You think she’ll actually sue?”

I still couldn’t believe my daughter was capable of such a thing.

“I hope she doesn’t, but you’d better be prepared.”

Vernon was right. I made an appointment with my therapist, Dr. Elijah Sherman, explaining the situation. She was shocked but agreed to help and referred me to a neurologist and psychiatrist for additional evaluations. I spent the next two weeks going from one medical office to another. The MRI showed only age-related changes consistent with my seventy-five years. A psychiatric evaluation confirmed that I was fully capable and had no cognitive impairment. Dr. Sherman compiled all the results and prepared a detailed report.

“Professor Glover, by all accounts, you are in excellent shape for your age. No signs of dementia or other cognitive impairment. Your memory function is excellent. You are fully oriented in space and time, and your decision-making ability is unquestionable.”

I thanked her and picked up copies of all the paperwork for Vernon. On the way home, I reflected on how absurd the situation was. I had to prove my sanity because of my own daughter’s threats.

At home, I continued my travel preparations with renewed vigor. Now that the medical issues were resolved, I could focus on the pleasant details. I made a list of books I wanted to reread during the trip, selected pictures of Hilda to take with me.

On the morning of the 22nd, three days before departure, the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood a young man in a strict suit.

“Professor Rupert Glover?” he asked in an official tone.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“You will need to sign for receipt of these documents,” he said, handing me a folder.

With a heavy heart, I opened it just after the courier left. Inside was a court notice. Prudence Wit née Glover had filed a petition to declare me incompetent and appoint her guardian of my estate.

Grounds: unreasonable waste of funds likely to result in the total impoverishment of the respondent and signs of senile dementia.

I sank into the chair, feeling my hands shaking. It’s one thing to make threats and quite another to actually do it. My own daughter was trying to take away my right to manage my own money—money I’d earned through decades of hard work.

My first call was to Vernon.

“You’ll have to appear,” he said. “Otherwise the judge might rule against you for failure to appear.”

“Then I’ll come back if I have to—but I won’t let her ruin my plans.”

Hanging up the phone, I looked over the paperwork one more time. Pru had described me as someone who was losing touch with reality, spending money recklessly, unable to make rational decisions. She mentioned my obsessive desire to spend a huge sum on a meaningless trip as proof of my incapacity.

I felt an attack of anger like I had never felt in my life. How dare she? How dare she call my dream— a dream I shared with her mother—meaningless. How dare she call me incompetent just because I chose to spend my own money differently than she would have liked.

Barely calming down, I began methodically gathering documents that could help my case: bank statements confirming Pru’s regular large transfers; records of the financial assistance I’d given her over the years—college, a wedding, a down payment on a house, repairs, cars, private school for the grandchildren. It all added up to hundreds of thousands of dollars.

As I worked on the documents, I couldn’t help but think about how Hilda and I had raised such a person. We always tried to instill in her the values we thought were important: honesty, hard work, respect for others. Where did we go wrong? Maybe we were too soft, too accommodating. Or was the problem deeper—a society that teaches children that material success is more important than anything else?

I remembered an incident when Pru was fourteen. She came home in tears because all her friends had expensive designer jeans and she didn’t. Hilda explained to her that we couldn’t afford that kind of spending and suggested that we look together for good jeans at a more reasonable price. Instead of accepting, Pru snuck her mother’s checkbook from the drawer, forged Hilda’s signature, and bought the coveted jeans. When we found out, we punished her—grounded her, canceled the planned trip to St. Augustine. She cried and promised it would never happen again. We believed her. Maybe that was our first mistake—showing her that she could get away with her actions if she reacted emotionally enough.

Or maybe the problem went even deeper, back to early childhood. Pru was our only child, a long-awaited miracle after years of unsuccessful attempts. Perhaps we overprotected her, allowed her too much, didn’t teach her enough to deny herself things. Whatever the reasons, the result was before my eyes: a subpoena from my own daughter accusing me of incapacity to gain control of my money. It was painful. Betrayal is always painful, but betrayal from someone you’ve loved and cherished your whole life—someone you’ve sacrificed your dreams and desires for—is a whole other level of pain.

I looked at Hilda’s picture. “What would you do now, dear?” I asked aloud, even though I knew there would be no answer. But I could imagine what she would say. Hilda had always been stronger than me, more determined.

“Fight it, Rupert. Don’t let her take over you. You deserve your dreams.”

I nodded as if responding to her unspoken advice. Yes, I would fight. For too long, I’d let Pru manipulate me with guilt and family obligations. For too long, I’d put my own dreams on hold, indulging her endless demands. Not anymore. I’ll go on this trip as planned, and then I’ll come back and meet her in court, and there I’ll finally say everything I’ve been holding in for so long.

I called Vernon again.

“Are you sure you want to go?” he asked when I confirmed my plans.

“Absolutely. I’m not going to let her dictate how I live my life. Not this time.”

“Good. I’ll try to reschedule the hearing. If it doesn’t work out, just be ready to come back.”

“Thanks, Vernon. You’re a true friend.”

Finished with the conversation, I went back to packing. There was a new determination in my movements now. Every neatly folded shirt, every book placed in the suitcase, reminded me of Hilda and how she dreamed of seeing a sunset over the Seine in Paris, over the Tiber in Rome. Now I’ll see them for both of us.

The phone rang, breaking my musings. It was Vernon.

“Rupert, I have news. I can’t tell if it’s good or bad, but the court hearing is set for June 7th—two weeks after you leave.”

“That’s good. I think I’ll be back in time for that.”

“Yes, but there’s one more thing. I got a copy of all the paperwork Pru filed. She doesn’t just want control of your finances, Rupert. She’s asking the court for a temporary restraining order against any major spending until a judgment is rendered.”

“What? She can’t do that.”

“She can try. The court is due to consider that motion in the next few days. If it’s granted, you won’t be able to pay for your trip.”

I felt the blood rush from my face. Pru was really trying to do everything she could to stop me.

“What can we do?”

“File a counter-petition, explain that the trip has already been paid for, that canceling would result in a significant financial loss. But honestly, Rupert, the chances are slim.”

I squeezed the tube tighter. “Do what you can, Vernon. I’m not giving up without a fight.”

Hanging up the phone, I finished my whiskey in one gulp. War had been declared. My own daughter had become my opponent in the battle for the right to control my life and my money. Well, if she wants a war, she’ll get one. I spent forty-two years teaching young minds how to analyze texts, find ulterior motives, and construct persuasive arguments. I was not the helpless old man she thought I was.

With these thoughts in mind, I went to bed—preparing for a battle I never wanted to fight, but which I could no longer dodge.

The Volusia County Courthouse, a massive greystone structure, seemed especially unfriendly to me on that June morning. I adjusted my tie and stepped inside, where Vernon was already waiting for me. My old friend looked collected and confident in his immaculate navy-blue suit.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, shaking my hand firmly.

“Like a man who has to sue his own daughter,” I replied, trying to remain calm.

My trip to Europe ended earlier than planned. I had time to visit Paris and Rome, but the news from Vernon that the court refused to reschedule the hearing for a later date caused me to cut the trip short. I returned to Daytona Beach two days before the scheduled date—tired from the flight but determined to defend myself.

“Remember, Rupert,” Vernon spoke softly as we walked up the stairs to the courtroom. “It’s important to remain calm no matter what Pru or her attorney says. Judge Caulfield is known for his respect for the elderly, but he’s also very mindful of their behavior in the courtroom.”

I nodded. In forty-two years of teaching, I had learned to remain calm in the most tense situations. Students have sometimes been aggressive. Parents, demanding. Administrators, adamant. But this was the first time I had to defend myself against accusations of incompetence made by my own child.

The courtroom was half empty. In the front row, I spotted Pru next to a man in an expensive suit—her lawyer, I assumed. She looked impeccable: strict business suit, perfect hair, moderate makeup. The image of a caring daughter concerned about her elderly father’s condition. It was ironic. She looked in my direction but made no attempt to greet me. Her eyes—so similar to Hilda’s—were cold and calculating. I felt a prick of pain. How had we gotten to this point?

“All rise, the court is in session. The Honorable Judge Jeffrey Caulfield presiding,” the bailiff announced.

Judge Caulfield, a man in his sixties with a penetrating gaze from beneath thick graying eyebrows, entered the hall and took his seat. After formalities and introductions of the parties, he turned to Pru’s attorney.

“Mr. Hayward, you may begin.”

Randall Hayward, a tall man with smoothly combed brown hair, rose from his seat. He moved with the confidence of a man accustomed to winning.

“Your honor, we are gathered here today on a very delicate but extremely important matter. At issue is the welfare of an elderly man who, unfortunately, has begun to show signs of cognitive decline, making him vulnerable to financial loss.”

I felt my fist clench, but by an effort of will, I forced myself to relax. Stay calm, Rupert. Stay calm.

“My client, Ms. Prudence Wit, has come to court not out of self-interest, but out of deep concern for her father’s well-being. We will present evidence that Professor Glover is making financial decisions that are completely contrary to his previous habits of frugality.”

Hayward paused for a moment before continuing. “Your honor, let me present a specific example. Professor Glover, a man who has spent his entire life saving every penny, suddenly decided to spend $35,000 on a trip to Europe. For a man of his age, such a trip is not only financially unwise but potentially dangerous.”

I barely restrained myself from objecting. My health was excellent for my age, and my doctor had authorized the trip. Besides, did the fact that I had finally decided to spend some of my savings on a longtime dream make me incapacitated?

Vernon presented the court with medical reports confirming my legal capacity and detailed the financial assistance I had given Pru over the past few years—over $170,000. The judge scrutinized the documents, and Pru’s face visibly tensed.

When it came time to testify, Pru described me as a forgetful, changed person who suddenly began spending money recklessly. She claimed that I even gave money to a gardener for some business—a pure lie, since I didn’t even have a gardener.

“When I tried to talk to him about it, he became aggressive and accused me of going after his money. This is completely unlike my father as I’ve known him all my life,” Pru stated.

During cross-examination, Vernon got Pru to admit that she had gotten $60,000 from me for a new car just a few months before the trial. When he asked why she wasn’t bothered by my incapacity then, she looked cornered.

“It’s different situations. A car is a necessity. Traveling is an excess,” she replied.

“Necessity for whom, Ms. Wit? For you or for your father?” Vernon pressed.

When it was my turn to testify, I told of my and Hilda’s long-held dream of traveling to Europe—how we kept putting off the trip because of family needs—and my decision to pursue that dream while I had the chance. Pru’s attorney tried to portray my decision as an irrational change of character, but I remained calm and gave reasonable answers, which clearly frustrated him.

In his closing argument, Hayward insisted that my actions were a sign of cognitive decline. “A man who has been thrifty all his life suddenly decides to spend a large sum on a trip in his old age. He changes his will, restricting his daughter’s access to inheritance. These are not the actions of a man who thinks clearly and rationally.”

In response, Vernon pointed to the medical evidence and emphasized my right to dispose of my funds as I see fit.

After closing arguments, the judge called a short recess to consider all the evidence. I sat in silence, realizing the gravity of the situation. My daughter—my flesh and blood—was willing to publicly vilify me, to distort the truth about my condition, just to gain control of my money.

When the hearing resumed, Judge Caulfield turned to me. “Professor Glover, I have carefully reviewed all the materials presented. The medical reports strongly indicate that you are fully competent, but I would like to hear from you personally. How do you account for such a significant change in your spending and relationship with your daughter?”

I slowly stood up, feeling the stares of everyone present. “Your honor, since my wife’s death, I’ve been rethinking a lot of things. Hilda and I had always put aside our own desires for the good of the family. But when she was gone, I realized that our biggest dream had remained unfulfilled. As for my relationship with my daughter—” I looked at Pru. “They changed not because of my cognitive decline but because of my epiphany.”

Judge Caulfield nodded. “Thank you, Professor Glover. You may be seated.”

At that moment, Pru jumped up from her seat. “That old man is spending all the money he doesn’t deserve.” Her voice rang with rage. “Now he’s going to pay me back everything from his inheritance. He has to!”

“Ms. Wit.” Judge Caulfield banged his gavel. “You’re forgetting yourself.”

But Pru didn’t stop. “He’s always been selfish, always thinking only of himself. And now he wants to rob me and my children of what is rightfully ours.”

I looked at my daughter, not recognizing in this angry woman the child that Hilda and I had raised with so much love, and suddenly a sense of complete clarity swept over me. I stood up.

“She robbed her mother,” I said clearly and loudly.

Silence instantly fell over the courtroom. Pru’s face went white, and Judge Caulfield looked at me with unconcealed surprise.

“What did you say, Professor Glover?” he asked.

“She robbed her mother,” I repeated, looking directly at Pru. “My wife, Hilda—her own mother—when she was suffering from Alzheimer’s.”

Pru collapsed into her seat as if her legs refused to hold her up.

Judge Caulfield looked shocked. “Professor Glover, this is a serious accusation. Do you have evidence?”

I nodded. “I do, your honor, and I am prepared to present it.”