He took the folder, his liver-spotted hands trembling slightly. He read in silence. The clock on the wall ticked—a heavy, rhythmic sound that seemed to chop the time into digestible pieces.
“Robert,” Mr. Abernathy muttered, closing the folder. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He sat in this very chair five years ago to update his final wishes. He never breathed a word.”
“He was good at that,” I said dryly.
“This complicates things,” Abernathy said. “The estate is settled. Reopening it… there are tax implications. There are challenges. If we reclassify the distribution of the land assets—”
“I don’t want the land,” Alyssa spoke up. It was the first time she’d spoken. Her voice was soft but clear.
We all turned to her.
“I don’t want the farm shares,” she continued, looking at her hands. “I don’t want to force you to sell anything. I don’t want to disrupt Margaret’s inheritance or… or the grandkids.”
“Then what do you want, dear?” Mom asked gently.
“Just… acknowledgment,” Alyssa whispered. “And maybe… help with my student loans. They’re heavy. If… if he left cash assets, that would be enough. I don’t want to take the earth out from under you.”
I looked at her. She was wearing a sweater I had bought her for her birthday last month. It was slightly too big. She looked small in this room of heavy oak and heavier history. She was trying so hard to be low-maintenance, to be the opposite of the disruption she inherently was.
