There was a gift from our father, who made it very clear that it was an investment to help me achieve my dream, not a loan. You made up this whole story because Mom wants to punish me for not living the life she had planned for me. My mother appeared behind Marcus. That money was part of the inheritance. We have all the rights. You have no right to what belongs to me.
And in about five minutes, you’ll realize how wrong you were. Thomas returned, his face red. Miss Delroy, I’ve contacted my superior. We’ll need more time to complete this appraisal. The property’s value is significantly higher than the initial estimate. By how much? Marcus asked.
Thomas looked at him, then at my mother, then at me. “Sir, this isn’t a struggling farm. Miss Delacroy supplies top-of-the-line organic produce to all the Michelin-starred restaurants in the region. Her contracts alone are worth…” he said, consulting his notes. “Her annual revenue exceeds $2 million. Her client relationships, exclusive seeds, and specialized infrastructure add considerable value, beyond just the land.” A heavy silence fell over the room.
“I’ve been in this business for 23 years,” Thomas continued. “I’ve never seen a specialized farm like this one. The greenhouses are professional-grade, climate-controlled systems. The seed library contains varieties that collectors would consider priceless. The client list reads like a guide to American gourmet restaurants.” He turned to Marcus.
Who told you this farm was in trouble? Because whoever gave you that information was either lying or incredibly ignorant. Marcus looked at my mother. My mother lowered her eyes. Based on my preliminary assessment, Thomas concluded, « This property is worth between 4 and 6 million dollars. The exact figure will require additional expert opinions, but the range is clear. »
He gathered his documents. “I’m going to submit my report to the court. The seizure proceedings will likely be dismissed. The debt claimed represents only a fraction of the property’s value, and frankly, the very legitimacy of the claim is now in question.” He left without another word. The silence lasted for almost a minute. Then Marcus began to fidget.
That doesn’t change anything. The loan is still valid. We can negotiate a repayment schedule. There is no loan, Marcus. There never was a loan. I pulled out a file I’d prepared years ago, waiting for this very moment. It’s Dad’s journal from six years ago. The entry for March 15th clearly states: « I gave Sophie $35,000 today. »
I told her it was an investment in her dream, not some solitary project. Linda’s going to be furious, but I believe in this girl. She’s going to prove them all wrong. I handed the journal to Marcus. He read the entry, his face pale. Dad kept journals for 30 years. They’re part of his estate records. You would have found this if you’d done some serious research instead of just trying to hurt me. I took the journal back.
This case will be submitted to the court. Your claim for repayment of fraudulent debt will be rejected. And at the judge’s discretion, you could face penalties for abusive litigation. Wait a minute. No, wait. I’ve moved closer to my brother. All the anger that had built up over six years has finally exploded.
You came here to take my farm. You came here to humiliate me. You came here to prove that your path was the only valid one and that mine was nothing but a delusion of failure. I pointed out the window at the greenhouses, the fields, the farm I had built with my own hands. I supply thirteen Michelin-starred restaurants. I have an eighteen-month waiting list for new clients.
Chefs from other states travel here to see what I grow. My farm generates more annual revenue than your law firm. Marcus remained silent. I turned to my mother. You never believed in me. Not when I graduated top of my class. Not when I built a successful career in marketing. Not when I decided to forge my own path.
You spent my life waiting for me to fail so you could say, « I told you so. » I was trying to protect you. You were trying to control me, and when control failed, you sought destruction. I shook my head. Dad believed in me. He gave me his blessing and his support. And you, since his death four years ago, have been working to destroy everything he stood for.
My mother’s face fell, but I remained impassive. « Leave my farm. Never contact me again. If you try anything else—any more legal action, any more schemes—I will retaliate with every means at my disposal. And as you have just seen, those means are considerable. » Marcus gathered his papers and left without a word.
My aunt Patricia followed, looking dazed. My mother lingered. « Sophie, I never meant it. » « Yes, you did. You really meant it. You just didn’t foresee the consequences. I’m your mother. You’re the woman who tried to steal my livelihood to teach me a lesson. Those are two very different things. » I opened the door. « Goodbye, Mom. » She left.
I closed the door and stayed alone in my kitchen, gazing at the farm I had built. The greenhouses gleamed in the afternoon sun. The fields were ready for spring sowing, a reflection of the life I had created through my determination and my father’s faith. Six weeks later, the court rejected the seizure request. The judge’s ruling highlighted, in particular, the lack of documentary evidence to justify the claimed debt and the contradictions presented in my father’s journals.
Marcus received an official warning for filing frivolous lawsuits. My mother tried to contact him twice. I didn’t answer, but I did change one thing. For six years, I hid my success. I preferred discretion to recognition, discretion to fame. I let my family believe I was a failure because their opinion seemed to have no bearing on my life.
Then I understood the price of that silence. I hired a publicist. I agreed to interviews. I let food magazines photograph my greenhouses and feature my farm. When the food section of the New York Times contacted me about a story on local and sustainable production, I accepted. The article was published three months later. It included photos of my fields, quotes from Michelin-starred chefs praising my produce, and a detailed account of how I had built a multimillion-dollar agricultural business from scratch.
The headline read: “The Unsung Queen of High-End Products.” I sent a copy to my mother, not to brag, nor out of revenge, but so that the next time she told someone her daughter was a failure, that person could look me up and discover the truth for themselves. Last week, I received a letter from Marcus. Sophie, I owe you an apology. Not a formal one.
My lawyer advised against it, but that’s just my personal opinion. I believed my mother. I never questioned her. I never went to the farm, I never inquired about your affairs, I never gave you the benefit of the doubt I would have given to any stranger. It’s my fault. I don’t expect your forgiveness.
But I wanted you to know that I see what you’ve accomplished, and I’m genuinely impressed. Dad was right about you. I wish I’d realized it sooner. Your brother, whether you like it or not. Marcus, I read the letter twice. Then I replied: « Marcus, you tried to take my farm. You sided with Mom without hesitation. You came onto my property to watch me fail. »
But you’ve also just admitted your mistake, unlike Mom. I’m not ready to forgive you yet, but I’m willing to let you make an effort. If you want to rebuild our relationship, you’ll have to put in the work. No shortcuts, no assumptions. Start by visiting the farm, seeing firsthand what I’ve built there, meeting the people who work there, understanding why it’s important to me, and then we’ll talk.
Your sister, Sophie, whether you deserve me or not, they declared my farm bankrupt. They tried to seize it for $47,000. The county assessor discovered a $6 million farm supplying some of America’s finest restaurants. My father believed in me when no one else did. Now the whole world knows he was right.
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