“The estate,” Melissa clarified, scrolling through her phone. “The house, the business. Brandon and I need to figure out the next steps.”
I’d expected grief from my children—maybe some reminiscing about their father. What I got instead was a boardroom meeting. Brandon opened his laptop on the dining table where we’d celebrated birthdays, graduations, and departures.
“Dad spoke to me about this last year,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “He was worried about you managing a loan. The business needs modernization, investment. The house is too much for someone your age.”
“My age,” I repeated, the words tasting bitter. “I’ve managed this orchard alongside your father for forty years.”
“And you’ve done wonderfully,” Melissa said in the same voice she used when selling overpriced vitamins to desperate women. “But it’s time to think about your future, Mom. A retirement community would give you friends. Activities.”
“I have friends,” I said. “I have activities.” My voice sounded distant even to my own ears. “This is my home.”
“It’s all of our home,” Brandon corrected. “And Dad left the business to Melissa and me in the will. He wanted us to take care of you, but he knew the business needed younger management.”
I stared at my son, this stranger in expensive clothes, who thought he knew anything about the earth that had fed him, the trees his father had nursed through drought and blight and frost.
“Show me the will.”
He slid a document across the table. Not our family lawyer’s letterhead, but something printed on Brandon’s corporate stationery. Nicholas’s signature looked wrong somehow—too perfect, too steady for a man whose hands had trembled with pain for months.
“You had him sign this while he was on morphine.”
