My children came only if I asked.
When they did visit, something felt wrong. Their bodies were present, but their minds seemed elsewhere. Twice, the conversation drifted quickly toward paperwork. Toward property. Toward what would happen “when the time came.”
One evening, my son lost his temper. “The house is mine,” he shouted, his voice sharp with entitlement.
I looked at him, tired but calm, and said, “You’ll all get a fair share.”
I didn’t want arguments. I didn’t want raised voices in the time I had left. I wanted quiet mornings. Gentle evenings. Dignity.
