“And the rest goes to strangers?”
The question sounded like Austin, and she heard it too.
She closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.
That came out wrong.”
“They are strangers now,” I said.
“So was I to this town a year ago.
Strangers were the people who noticed me.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Brooke stiffened, perhaps expecting Austin or Rachel.
It was Mrs.
Patel from across the hall holding a covered bowl.
“I made too much lentil soup,” she said.
“And I saw the lawyer’s car, so I thought you might forget lunch.”
She noticed Brooke and smiled.
“You must be Thomas’s daughter.
He talks about you.”
Brooke’s eyes filled again.
Even after everything, I had talked about her.
I introduced them.
Mrs.
Patel handed me the bowl, reminded me about the library fundraiser, and left without asking a single question about the papers on my table.
Brooke watched the door close.
“She checks on you?”
“We check on each other.”
That simple sentence seemed to expose the difference between family as a title and family as a practice.
My phone began vibrating with messages.
Hannah first.
Then Rachel.
Then Morgan.
Austin had clearly told them about the trust.
Rachel’s message said I was destroying Jennifer’s legacy.
Hannah asked me to delay until everyone could meet.
Morgan wrote only one sentence: I am so sorry, Dad.
I showed Brooke.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“Daniel and I finish our work.
Then I eat my cinnamon roll.”
“And us?”
That was the harder question.
I did not want revenge.
I also did not want one morning of tears to erase a decade of choices.
“There will be no inheritance negotiation,” I said.
“No family meeting about my money.
No argument about the house.
Those decisions are finished.”
She nodded.
“Can I still call you?”
“You can call.”
“Will you answer?”
“Not always.”
She absorbed that quietly.
“Can I visit?”
“You can ask.
Sometimes I will say yes.
