“Mom?” Ben whispered.
Handing him the house keys, I strode toward the trees. Monica was halfway over our wooden fence, her floral blouse snagged on a protruding nail. Two oversized sacks rested on our grass, stuffed to the brim with Daniel’s prized apples and pears.
For a long stretch, neither of us spoke. Then Monica looked at me—and instead of remorse, her expression hardened into sheer irritation, as if I were the intruder.
“What on earth are you doing?” I breathed.
Wrenching her shirt free from the nail, Monica dropped to the ground. “Don’t be selfish, Claire. I intend to sell them. I need the cash.”
I stared at the heavy bags. “You could have asked.”
“And would you have granted permission?”
“No. My children eat this fruit. Their father nurtured those trees.”
Monica rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s gone now, isn’t he? They’ll just rot on the ground.”
For a terrifying second, words failed me. Ben stood only paces away, still clutching his father’s cap, his small knuckles whitening around the brim. I stepped squarely between him and Monica.
