I asked Vanessa to repeat herself. She smiled and did, slower this time, enunciating every syllable like I was a child. Theo finally mumbled, “Just sign it, Claire. You don’t even use the house.” I nodded once. Then I reached into my tote bag — the same canvas bag I’d carried Mom’s medications in for seven years — and pulled out a slim navy folder. “Funny you mention the care home,” I said. “Because Mom transferred her medical power of attorney to me in 2019. And the care home? It’s been paid in full since March. By me. From the joint account Mom opened in my name the week she was diagnosed.” Vanessa’s wine glass froze halfway to her lips. I slid the folder across the table. Inside: the deed to the house, already transferred — to me — eighteen months ago, witnessed by Mom’s attorney and her priest. Mom had known. Mom had always known. “She wrote you both letters,” I said quietly. “She asked me not to give them to you until after the will was read. She wanted to give you a chance to show me who you really were tonight.” I placed two sealed envelopes on the table. Vanessa lunged for hers. Theo started crying before he even opened his. I stood up, smoothed my cardigan, and walked to the front door. “You have until Sunday to collect anything sentimental. After that, the locks change. The proceeds from the sale are going to the pediatric oncology ward where Mom spent her last month — in her name.” Vanessa screamed something about lawyers. I didn’t turn around. I just stepped out onto the porch where Mom used to drink her morning coffee, tilted my face up to the rain, and finally — for the first time in seven years — exhaled.
