A week after the funeral, Emily came to the house unannounced. I was in the kitchen, washing a mug I hadn’t used since Mark died. She walked in like she still owned the place, heels clicking against the tile.
“I spoke to Dad’s lawyer,” she said without greeting me. “He said you’d be contacting me about the inheritance.”
I turned off the faucet slowly. “Sit down.”
She rolled her eyes but took a seat at the table. “I don’t want this to be difficult, Mom. Dad would’ve wanted things handled fairly.”
I looked at her for a long moment. “Do you remember what you said at the funeral?”
She crossed her arms. “I told the truth.”
“No,” I replied quietly. “You told your version of it.”
Her jaw tightened. “You controlled him. You complained. You made his life miserable.”
I took a breath. “Your father had heart disease, Emily. Diagnosed three years ago. He hid it from you because he didn’t want you to worry. He worked because he chose to, not because I forced him.”
She looked away, unconvinced.
I reached into the folder beside me and slid a copy of the will across the table. “Your father left everything to me.”
Her head snapped back. “What?”
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