The moment the door closed behind us, he lowered himself into his worn leather chair. The room carried familiar scents—tobacco and cedar—surrounded by old books and framed photographs, some of which no longer included me.
“She never asked,” he said quietly after a long silence.
“No,” I answered. “She didn’t ask me either.”
He lightly tapped his cane against the floor. “That BMW—I chose it myself. It was meant for you. Not just transportation, but a statement. You’ve worked since you were a teenager, never demanded anything. I wanted you to know I noticed.”
My throat tightened. “It was the first gift I ever received that didn’t come with expectations.”
“I thought your mother understood,” he muttered.
“She understands what suits her,” I replied.
He studied me then, resolve hardening behind his pale eyes. “Have you ever wondered why I haven’t finished my will?”
I hesitated. “Not really. I assumed you were just taking your time.”
