The Confrontation
By morning, they were at my door—pale, frantic.
“Dad! What is this? You can’t—”
“Can’t what, Scott? Give away your inheritance?”
I smiled coldly. “When I was dying, did you call me?”
“We were busy!” Susan cried. “You don’t understand—work, bills—”
“Busy enough to text me that the house was peaceful without me?”
They said nothing.
I opened the door wider. “You have twenty-four hours to move out.”
Susan sobbed. Scott glared.
For once, I didn’t flinch.
“After forty-five years, I’ve finally stopped apologizing for being alive.”
I closed the door behind them.
