The reading started at four. Vanessa wore white, like she was already celebrating. Cole kept checking his Rolex, muttering about a flight to Tulum. Their spouses sat behind them like a cheering section, whispering about which contractor they’d use to gut Mom’s Craftsman house on Linden Street.
Mr. Whitcomb cleared his throat. “Before I begin, Hannah has been asked by the deceased to read a personal letter.”
Vanessa scoffed. “Of course she does. Always the favorite.”
I opened the envelope with shaking hands. Mom’s handwriting was crooked but clear.
“To my children. Vanessa, you came home twice in eight years. Cole, you came home zero. Hannah bathed me, fed me, and read me Jane Eyre when I forgot my own name. So here is what I’ve decided. The Linden Street house, the lake cabin, the brokerage account, and the rights to your father’s patent royalties — every dollar — go to Hannah.”
Vanessa stood up so fast her chair hit the wall. “That’s not legal. She was sick. She didn’t know what she was signing.”
Mr. Whitcomb slid a flash drive across the table. “Your mother anticipated that.” He pressed play. There was Mom, frail but lucid, dated three weeks before her death, naming each child, each asset, each reason. “Vanessa asked me for fifty thousand dollars last Christmas and didn’t visit when I had pneumonia. Cole told me to sell the house and Venmo him his share. Hannah never asked for anything. Not once.”
Cole’s face went gray. “Hannah. Come on. We’re family. We can split this.”
I finally looked up. “You said I shouldn’t bother coming to the funeral unless I signed the house over. So I won’t bother. I’m hosting Mom’s memorial at the Linden house on Saturday. My house. Invitation only.”
Vanessa whispered, “You wouldn’t.”
I slid two envelopes across the table. “Your last bill from the hospice. Mom paid it. The least you can do is say thank you.”
Then I picked up my folder, walked past my white-dressed sister, and finally, for the first time in eight years, I slept through the night.
