She had known. She had always known.
I was twenty years old the afternoon she signed these papers, sitting beside her hospital bed while Margaret, her lawyer and longtime friend, explained the structure of the trust in the careful, unhurried way she had. The room smelled like antiseptic and recirculated air, but my mother had insisted the window be opened a crack because she wanted to pretend the breeze was ocean air. Her hands had felt light when she held mine, the bones close to the surface in a way that was new and frightening. But her eyes were exactly the same as they had always been, sharp and clear and completely focused.
“The beach house is our legacy,” she told me. “Your grandparents built it themselves. Your grandfather dug the foundation. Your grandmother painted every room. I spent my first summer there before I could walk. Your father and I got married on that porch.” She paused. “You came home there your first summer.”
I had said something about treatments, about not needing to talk about property right now, about there being plenty of time for all of this later. She had shaken her head with the gentle patience she used when I was being deliberately optimistic and she needed me to pay attention.
“Victoria has been trying to get her hands on that house since the day she came into our lives,” she said. “I can see the way she looks at it. It isn’t a home to her. It’s a score. I won’t let her have it. I won’t let her take everything.”
