Andre finally spoke.
His voice didn’t have one ounce of the warmth I remembered from when he was a little boy.
“Dad was very specific about his wishes, Mom.”
He paused. He looked at me. Studying my face for a reaction.
“He felt you’d lived comfortably long enough. And honestly? You’re still young enough to work. If you need to supplement your income.”
Young enough to work.
At sixty-two. With arthritis in both hands so bad I can’t open a jar of pickles. And a heart condition that makes climbing a flight of stairs feel like climbing a mountain.
The cruelty of it took my breath away.
The lawyer, a man named Robert Sterling in an expensive gray suit, kept reading. Like he was discussing the weather.
“The estate is valued at approximately two and a half million dollars. After taxes and legal fees, Andre will receive roughly two million. The Beacon Falls cabin has been assessed at fifteen thousand dollars.”
Fifteen thousand dollars.
Thirty-nine years of marriage. Decades of keeping house. Raising our son. Standing by my husband through every business venture, every bad year, every health scare.
And I was worth fifteen thousand dollars to them.
“There must be some kind of mistake,” I said. My voice was getting stronger now. “Randall would never—”
“Are you questioning Dad’s mental capacity?” Andre cut me off. Sharp. “Because Dr. Walsh confirmed he was completely lucid when he signed this. We have medical documentation.”
The threat was crystal clear.
If I fought this, they’d paint me as a bitter widow trying to overturn her husband’s final wishes. Maybe even suggest that I was the one whose mind was slipping.
Melissa reached across the table and patted my hand.
Melissa was a social worker before she married my son. She’s very good at reading people. At finding where they’re soft. And pressing there.
“I know this is so hard,” she said. “But you have to trust that Randall knew what was best. Some people need structure. Guidance. This will give you a chance to live more simply. More authentically.”
More authentically.
As if my whole life with Randall had been some kind of act.
“When do I need to be out of the house?” I asked.
I was surprised by how steady my voice sounded.
“We’d appreciate it if you could be out by the end of the week,” Andre said. He didn’t look at me. “Melissa and I are eager to move in with the kids. Fresh start and all that.”
A fresh start. In my home.
In the house where I raised him. Where every single room held memories of birthdays and Christmases and quiet evenings with Randall on the back porch.
They wanted to erase me so completely that they couldn’t even wait one month.
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