I told her what the attorney had explained.
She inhaled sharply.
Then she said something I will never forget.
“How could you do this to your father?”
I sat down.
“Do what?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand.”
“Nana made her own will.”
“She was vulnerable.”
“Mom, she knew exactly what she was doing.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
For a moment, I couldn’t find words.
My mother had barely asked about my grief.
Now she was accusing me of something I hadn’t done.
“Did you know about the will?” she demanded.
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
That hurt more than I expected.
Not because she’d never doubted me before.
Because I had hoped death might make us kinder to one another.
Instead, it had made the familiar cruelty more direct.
“Mom, I’m not doing this over the phone.”
“You’d better think very carefully about what happens next.”
