I looked at the vans, the coolers, the matching red sweaters, and the children already running toward the dunes as though the house belonged to them.
“Tradition,” I said, “is what you call taking something long enough to mistake it for ownership.”
Aunt Patricia’s smile disappeared.
“Your grandmother would be ashamed.”
Sheriff Callahan cleared his throat.
“Actually, Ruth filed a written statement with her estate attorney before she passed.”
That silenced them.
I opened the envelope and pulled out copies of the letter Grandma had left for me.
To my family: If you are reading this because Nora has refused you entry, understand that she is honoring my wishes, not betraying them.
Mom stepped forward, pale beneath her makeup.
“Nora, we’re your parents.”
“You were my parents every Christmas you forgot me too.”
Dad looked away.
My sister Lauren crossed her arms.
“This is punishment because Grandma loved you more.”
