And I remembered her at six. Sitting on an overturned bucket on that bank, crying because a bluegill swallowed her hook. Grandpa kneeling down beside her to get it out. Me holding her hand.
“Brit,” I said. “Look at me.”
She lifted her face.
“You were twenty-six,” I said. “Mom got you drunk on a dock a week before your wedding and dumped all of that on you. That’s not on you. That’s on her.”
“I could have told you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You could have.”
She flinched.
“But you’re telling me now,” I said.
Chapter Eight: The LawyerFind Lawyers
I called a lawyer on Monday.
I knew what she was going to say before I even dialed. But I needed to hear it.
Her name was Margaret Pohl. She did estate law in Creston. Not the same lawyer Mom and Dad took Grandpa to. A different one. A gray-haired woman in her sixties who’d been doing wills and
