Sign the papers, Mom, or you’ll be eating cat food by Christmas — this

I dried my hands on the apron, slow, the way Hank used to dry his after coming in from the fields. Then I sat down across from Derek and his lawyer and smiled the smile I save for door-to-door salesmen. ‘Honey,’ I said, ‘before I sign, you should know something about this farm.’ Derek rolled his eyes. Bianca clicked her pen. I reached into the bread drawer — the one nobody ever looks in — and pulled out a manila folder soft from handling. ‘Your father and I put the orchard into a conservation trust in 2019. Forty-two acres. Can’t be subdivided. Can’t be developed. Can’t be a wedding venue, a vineyard, or a parking lot. Ever.’ Bianca’s pen stopped clicking. Derek’s mouth opened. ‘But more importantly,’ I went on, sliding a second page across, ‘the house and the remaining six acres were deeded last March to the Northern Valley Hospice — the people who sat with your father while you were ‘too slammed at work’ to drive up. I have a life estate. I live here until I die. Then it becomes a respite home for dying farmers. Your father picked the name. Hank’s Place.’ The silence was so loud I could hear the apples settling in the colander. Derek’s face went the color of skim milk. ‘You — you can’t —’ ‘I already did, sweetheart. Three lawyers, two notaries, and a judge who went to high school with your daddy.’ Bianca quietly began packing her briefcase. Derek stood up so fast his chair barked against the floor. ‘After everything I —’ ‘After everything you what, Derek? You missed his funeral for a conference. You called me twice this year, both times asking about the will.’ I picked up the deed transfer he’d brought, tore it cleanly in half, and dropped the pieces into the compost bin with the apple peels. ‘Cat food, you said?’ I slid the warm pie tin toward him. ‘Have a slice for the road, baby. It’s the last thing of mine you’ll ever get.’