Or maybe everything just tastes wrong now.
Yesterday, I buried my husband.
My son stayed for forty-five minutes, then left to drink champagne with strangers.
Yesterday, I sat alone in the front pew at First Presbyterian Church while our only child hid in the back row like a distant relative.
Like someone who barely knew the deceased.
Yesterday, I watched Derek check his watch twice during our goodbye hug.
Watched him prioritize cocktail hour over his father’s memory.
Watched him become someone I don’t recognize.
Or maybe someone I’ve been refusing to recognize for years.
I stand.
Walk to Harold’s study.
He kept everything organized.
All our important documents filed alphabetically in the cabinet next to his desk.
Estate papers under E.
Investment records under I.
Will under W.
I pull out the will.
It’s old, written thirty years ago when Derek was just a teenager.
Simple and straightforward.
Upon Harold’s death, everything passes to me.
Upon my death, everything passes to our surviving children.
Singular.
Child.
Derek.
I read it twice.
Wait.
Three times.
See Harold’s signature at the bottom.
His handwriting that got shakier toward the end but never lost its careful precision.
He never updated it.
Never changed it.
Never added conditions or stipulations.
Just left everything to Derek because that’s what parents do.
They give and give and give.
Even when their children take and take and take.
I fold the will, put it back in the folder, close the cabinet, and kneel.
Then I pull out fresh paper from Harold’s desk drawer.
Pick up a pen.
Start writing.
My hands don’t shake.
That surprises me.
I thought they would.
By noon, I’ve made a list.
Estate attorney.
New will.
Specific instructions.
The words flow easily.
Clear.
Simple.
Final.
I call Roger Pemberton’s emergency line.
He answers on the second ring.
“Margaret, is everything all right?”
“I need to change my will. Can you see me Monday?”
Silence.
Then, “Of course. First thing, 9:00 a.m.?”
“Perfect.”
I hang up.
Look around Harold’s study.
His reading glasses on the desk.
His coffee mug, the one Derek gave him for Father’s Day fifteen years ago with World’s Best Dad printed on it.
Harold used it every single day.
Even after Derek stopped calling.
Stopped visiting.
Stopped pretending to care.
My phone buzzes.
Text message.
Derek.
Hey Mom, made it to the gala. Amazing event. We’ll call tomorrow to discuss estate stuff. Love you.
Estate stuff.
His father has been dead less than forty-eight hours, and he’s already thinking about money.
About what he’s going to inherit.
About the fortune Harold built that Derek assumes is his.
I delete the message.
Put the phone face down on the desk.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to Roger’s office.
Tomorrow, I’ll sign papers that will redirect every penny away from the son who chose parties over presence.
Tomorrow, I’ll make sure Harold’s legacy goes somewhere it’ll actually matter.
But tonight, I sit in my husband’s study drinking tea I don’t even like and realize I’m done.
Done sacrificing.
Done giving.
Done pretending that blood relation means more than basic human decency.
Derek made his choice at that funeral.
Checked his watch twice and walked away.
Now I’m making mine.
Monday morning.
8:45.
I’m sitting in Roger Pemberton’s waiting room wearing the black dress from Saturday.
Haven’t bought new clothes in three years.
Didn’t see the point.
His secretary offers coffee.
I decline.
My stomach hasn’t settled since the funeral.
Since watching Derek disappear out that church door like his father’s death was an inconvenience.
A scheduling conflict.
“Margaret?”
Roger stands in his office doorway.
“Come in.”
His office smells like leather and old books.
Certificates on the wall.
Photos of his three daughters.
Family.
The kind that shows up.
The kind that stays.
“I’ve drafted the new documents based on our conversation.”
He slides papers across the desk.
“But I need to make sure you understand what you’re doing.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“Your entire estate will be divided among three charities: the Alzheimer’s Association, the county library system, and a scholarship fund for first-generation college students.”
He pauses, studies my face.
“Derek receives nothing.”
“Correct.”
“He’ll fight this, Margaret. He’s your only child. He’ll argue undue influence, diminished capacity. He’ll drag this through court and make it ugly.”
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