And before the reception ended, while I was still accepting condolences from people who seemed to remember my mother far better than her own son, Marcus pulled me aside.
His voice was low, pitched so that the other mourners couldn’t hear.“We need to talk about the house,” he said.
The funeral flowers were still fresh. Some of them were wilting. And my brother was already calculating property values.
When My Brother Made His True Intentions Perfectly Clear
“You need to clear out your things by the end of the week,” Marcus said, standing in the church vestibule while colored light from the stained-glass windows fell across his face. “The house is mine now. Dad made that clear years ago.”
I stared at him. I was still wearing the black dress I’d worn to bury our parents. I still had a tissue tucked in my sleeve.“We haven’t even read the will yet,” I said.
