She’d known. She’d known Victoria too well.
In my mind, I was twenty again, curled up in a chair beside Mom’s hospital bed. The room had smelled like antiseptic and stale air, but she’d insisted we open the window a crack so she could “pretend the breeze was ocean air.” Her voice had been weak, but her eyes—always sharp, always clear—were fixed on me with fierce intensity.
“Alexandra,” she’d said, taking my hand. Her fingers had felt so light, like brittle leaves. “The beach house is our legacy. That place is more than wood and nails. Your grandparents built it with their own hands. They brought me there when I was a baby. I said my vows to your father on that porch. We brought you home there your first summer.”
I remembered crying, blurting out something about how we should be talking about treatments, not property. But she’d shaken her head, stubborn as always.
“Listen to me. Victoria has been trying to get her hands on that house since the day she married your father. I can see it. The way she looks at it—like it’s not a home, but a prize. I won’t let that happen. I won’t let her take everything.”
