Concerned parent. Burdened by a difficult child.
Then Miranda stood for cross-examination, calm as ice.
“Mrs. Frost,” she began, “you say your daughter is financially immature. When was the last time you reviewed her actual financial records?”
My mother blinked.
“Well… we haven’t,” she admitted. “She won’t share them.”
“So your concern,” Miranda said, “is not based on evidence of debt or mismanagement—only on her career choice and decision to live independently.”
“It’s based on a pattern of poor judgment,” my mother said, voice tightening.
Miranda’s tone stayed mild.
“A pattern that includes graduating with honors, earning a master’s degree, maintaining continuous employment for a decade, and purchasing a home without financial assistance from you or your husband. Correct?”
My mother’s lips pressed thin.
“Anyone can get a mortgage,” she said.
“And yet,” Miranda replied, “she has managed it for five years without a single late payment.”
She paused, then pivoted.
“You mentioned isolation. Does she have friends? A support system outside the family?”
“She has acquaintances,” my mother said, dismissive, “but no one who truly looks out for her.”
Miranda turned slightly to the judge.
“Your Honor, we will present testimony from her employer of ten years and members of her community who will attest to her stability and support network.”
The judge nodded slightly, watching.
Miranda turned back to my mother.
“If your daughter were to marry tomorrow,” she asked, “would you still believe she needed a conservator?”
My mother hesitated.
“That would be different,” she said.
Miranda’s eyebrow lifted.
“A husband would provide guidance?”
“Objection,” Vance snapped.
“Sustained,” Judge Winslow said, but his eyes stayed on my mother.
Miranda didn’t flinch.
“Mrs. Frost,” she said, “do you love your daughter?”
For a microsecond, my mother’s mask slipped—annoyance flashing before she caught it.
“Of course,” she said quickly. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Thank you,” Miranda said. “No further questions.”
My father took the stand next.
Vance’s questions were technical, playing to my father’s identity as a rational man. He spoke of risk assessment, fiduciary responsibility. He called my life “unchecked sentimental choices.” He implied my independence was obstinacy, my refusal of their advice evidence of dysfunction.
He was colder than my mother, but the message was the same:
Aloan is a child in an adult body. We must take control.
When Miranda stood to cross-examine him, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
“Mr. Frost,” she said, “you are a partner at Sterling and Vance. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“A firm specializing in corporate and property law.”
“Yes.”
“So you are intimately familiar with liens, refinancing, and asset management.”
My father’s eyes narrowed. “I am.”
Miranda’s voice stayed conversational.
“Your home in Willow Creek is quite beautiful. How many times have you refinanced that property in the last five years?”
Vance shot up. “Objection. Relevance.”
Miranda didn’t blink. “It goes directly to credibility and motive, Your Honor. Their financial stability is relevant to their claim that they act solely from concern.”
Judge Winslow considered. “I’ll allow it. Tread carefully.”
My father’s jaw tightened.
“I’d have to check exact numbers,” he said.
“Would three be accurate?” Miranda asked.
A faint flush crept up my father’s neck.
“That sounds possible.”
“And the contractor liens filed against the property,” Miranda pressed, “are those also due to market volatility?”
The room went absolutely silent.
My mother froze.
Arthur Vance looked furious.
My father stared at Miranda, and for the first time I saw it—a crack in his armor. Not fear exactly. Rage at being revealed.
“I handle my personal affairs competently,” he said low. “Unlike my daughter.”
Miranda’s tone stayed mild.
“Of course,” she said. “No further questions.”
But the seed was planted.
I watched Judge Winslow make a note.
Vance called a family friend who parroted their concerns. He called a psychiatrist they’d hired who gave vague testimony about “attachment issues” and potential “financial naïveté,” based entirely on interviews with my parents.
Miranda shredded him gently.
“You have not met Miss Frost,” she got him to admit.
“No.”
“You have not evaluated her.”
“No.”
“So your testimony is speculation.”
The man’s shoulders sank.
Then it was our turn.
Miranda called Mrs. Gable.
My boss took the stand like she was walking into battle.
She spoke of my competence, my integrity, my meticulous work. She called me the backbone of the department.
“If Aloan Frost is incompetent,” she said, fixing the judge with a stare, “then so is everyone in this room.”
She called my bank manager, who presented accounts showing consistent savings, excellent credit, and no debt beyond a mortgage that was paid on time.
She called two friends from my book club who spoke warmly about dinners, laughter, stability.
With each witness, the portrait of a capable, rooted adult grew stronger, standing in harsh contrast to the helpless ghost my parents tried to invent.
Finally, the afternoon light slanted through the windows, and Miranda said, “Your Honor, the defense calls Aloan Frost.”
My heart slammed.
I walked to the stand, steps steady. I swore to tell the truth.
Miranda’s questions were simple. Direct. She guided me through my education, my career, my home purchase. I explained my job—why it mattered, why it wasn’t a dead end, why preserving stories was a calling.
I spoke clearly. Calmly. Boringly.
It was normal.
Undeniably sane.
Then Miranda approached the bench.
“Your Honor,” she said, “the defense wishes to submit a comprehensive inventory of the respondent’s assets and possessions, prepared for this proceeding, to be entered into the record.”
Judge Winslow nodded. “Very well.”
Miranda handed a thick bound document to the bailiff—a serious-looking man in his fifties. He stepped forward.
“I’ll read the list into the record,” he said in a dry official baritone.
He opened the folder.
And began.
“Item one,” he read. “Primary residence, condominium unit 4B at 321 Cedar Lane. Owned outright. Market value approximately four hundred thousand dollars.”
My father’s eyes flickered.
They hadn’t known it was paid off.
“Item two,” the bailiff continued. “Retirement and investment portfolio. Diversified. Current value approximately two hundred twenty thousand dollars.”
My mother’s hand went to her throat.
The bailiff went on, calm and methodical, like he was reading a grocery list.
“Item three: collection of rare first-edition historical texts and personal journals. Acquired over ten years. Last professional appraisal valued at approximately one million five hundred thousand dollars.”
A sharp collective inhale filled the courtroom.
Even the judge jerked forward.
Arthur Vance’s smug expression vanished, replaced by horror.
My father’s head snapped toward me, eyes wide with unfiltered shock.
“What collection?” he demanded, voice cutting through the stunned quiet. He wasn’t asking the judge. He was asking me.
My mother looked bewildered, her performance completely derailed.
“Aloan,” she whispered. “What is he talking about?”
Judge Winslow slammed his gavel.
“Order,” he barked. “Silence in my courtroom.”
The bailiff cleared his throat, suddenly aware he was detonating something.
“Item four,” he continued slowly. “One vintage 1965 Ford Mustang. Fully restored. Garage-kept. Insured value one hundred eighty thousand dollars.”
My father gripped the table, knuckles white.
They thought I drove a sensible sedan.
I did.
The Mustang was my secret Sunday joy, paid for in cash, restored patiently with a retired mechanic.
“Item five: assorted historical artifacts and antique maps. Insured value approximately three hundred thousand dollars.”
“Item six: municipal and corporate bond portfolio. Value approximately four hundred thousand dollars.”
“Item seven: liquid savings and checking accounts. Total balance approximately one hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
He finished.
Closed the folder.
The final tally hung in the room like a thundercloud.
My “impractical” quiet life added up to a net worth well over two and a half million dollars.
All self-made. All acquired while my parents believed I was barely scraping by.
Judge Winslow leaned forward, elbows on the bench.
“Miss Shaw,” he said to Miranda, voice deceptively calm, “would you care to explain?”
Miranda stood like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.
“Certainly, Your Honor,” she said. “What has been read is a verified inventory prepared by a licensed, court-approved appraiser and auditor. Every item is documented, insured, and legally owned by Aloan Frost.”
She gestured slightly, like a teacher presenting proof.
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