My treat,” I cut in. “Steak for you, chicken for Penny.”

At the hotel, Penny sprawled across the bed like royalty. Granddad looked small, uncertain. I knelt by his chair.

“I promise,” I said. “Tomorrow, I’ll fix this.”

And I did.

I spent the night digging through county records. Property deeds, tax files—it was all there. The house was still in Granddad’s name. Dad and Linda had zero legal claim.

The next day, I called my friend Jessica, who works in media.

“I need you to record something,” I told her.

“Exposing someone awful?”

“The worst kind. Someone who kicks out an elderly man.”

An hour later, Jessica’s hidden camera was rolling as we walked into the house. Linda sat in the kitchen, sipping wine from Grandma’s crystal.

“Hey, Linda,” I said casually. “Why was Granddad sitting outside with his bags?”

She didn’t even flinch. “Because he chose that mangy dog over his family. I told him—either the mutt goes, or he goes with it.”

“But this is his house.”

She laughed. “Not for long. He’s 86. When he finally kicks the bucket, this place’ll be worth a fortune. I won’t let some crippled dog drag down the property value.”

Every word was caught on camera.