“What else?”
Patrick shook his head.
“He says he’s sorry.”
“For what?”
“For letting me think he promised me the house.”
Megan leaned forward.
“Did he?”
“No.”
The answer sat between them.
Outside, a forklift beeped as it moved down the row of units. The ordinary sound seemed almost insulting. The world continued, indifferent to the fact that Patrick’s understanding of his childhood had shifted by a few inches and left him standing somewhere unfamiliar.
He read the final page.
> Patrick, if you are reading this after I am gone, do not ask your mother to defend a decision she has the right to make. If she keeps the house, be grateful. If she sells it, be grateful that she trusted herself enough to do so. The best thing you can inherit from us is not the lake, the rooms, or the land. It is the ability to stand on your own without resenting the people who helped you get there.
At the bottom was one final line.
> And if you ever find yourself planning a future in that house, ask your mother first. Not what she intends to leave you. Ask what she wants for herself.
Patrick folded the pages slowly.
Megan remained seated, her hands clasped between her knees.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
He looked at her.
