Chapter 23 - The Will Nobody Got to Control
My first instinct was to say yes.
Not because it was legally correct.
Because some old part of me still kept an invisible ledger.
What had Wes cost me?
Money.
Time.
Safety.
Sleep.
Trust.
Years.
If Mom left him anything, would that mean she had forgotten?
Would equal inheritance turn unequal damage into a lie?
Then I recognized the trap.
Her will was hers.
That was the entire point.
“Mom, don’t design your estate around making me feel chosen.”
She was quiet.
“I’m trying to be fair.”
“Then decide what fair means to you.”
“What if you disagree?”
“I’m allowed.”
“What if you’re hurt?”
“I’m allowed that too.”
She laughed softly.
“You make freedom sound inconvenient.”
“It usually is.”
We met for coffee the next day.
Mom brought notes.
Actual notes.
Three years earlier, she would have brought tears and called them information.
“I have a retirement account,” she said. “Not much. Some savings. My furniture.”
“I don’t want the furniture.”
“You haven’t even seen the new lamp.”
“I’m willing to risk it.”
She smiled.
Then she became serious.
“My attorney suggested equal shares, with any unpaid restitution remaining a separate legal obligation.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Wes may think it isn’t.”
“Then he can discuss it with you.”
Mom nodded.
“I needed to hear that.”
“No. You needed to decide it.”
She looked down.
“That too.”
A week later, Mom signed her new will.
I never saw it.
That felt like progress.
Then Sophie asked to visit.
She arrived on Saturday with Mason and Brooke.
The twins ordered pizza.
The four cousins took over the basement.
Brooke and I sat upstairs drinking coffee.
“I haven’t heard them laugh together like that in years,” she said.
“Neither have I.”
She looked tired.
“Wes is doing better.”
I waited.
“He started group counseling through his supervision program. He’s working full-time at a building supply warehouse.”
“That’s good.”
“He hates it.”
“That may also be good.”
Brooke laughed.
Then her expression shifted.
“He asked me if he could take the kids for a weekend.”
“What did you say?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“He’s still angry when they challenge him.”
I nodded.
“He doesn’t scare them. But he shuts down. Or he says they’re disrespectful.”
“What does the counselor say?”
“That trust requires tolerating questions.”
“That sounds right.”
Brooke stirred her coffee.
“I’m telling you because someday Sophie might ask whether you think she should see him.”
My chest tightened.
“I don’t want that job.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking you not to accidentally take it.”
That made me look at her.
She continued.
“They respect you. Maybe too much.”
I sat with that.
For years, I had wanted someone in the family to see me clearly.
Now I had to be careful that my version of clarity did not become another authority children felt required to obey.
“If they ask,” I said, “I’ll tell them it’s their relationship.”
“Thank you.”
Downstairs, someone shouted.
Then Finn yelled, “It’s fine!”
No sentence in parenting carried less reassurance.
We found four teenagers attempting to build a ramp from old couch cushions.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
Mason looked disappointed.
“Why?”
“Because I restore buildings. I do not create orthopedic business.”
They dismantled it.
Mostly.
That evening, after everyone left, Addie sat on my bed.
“Sophie asked me if Uncle Wes is a bad person.”
“What did you say?”
“I said he did bad things.”
“That sounds fair.”
“She said that wasn’t an answer.”
“It isn’t.”
Addie picked at a loose thread on my blanket.
“What’s the answer?”
I thought about my brother.
The boy who used to leave the porch light on for me.
The man who forged my identity.
The father who loved his children and lied to them.
The person who had recently told Mason the truth.
“I don’t know.”
Addie looked surprised.
“You always know.”
“Terrifying rumor.”
She smiled.
Then I said, “I think people are more than the worst thing they’ve done. But being more doesn’t erase responsibility for it.”
“So can I love him?”
“Yes.”
“Can I still not want him here?”
“Yes.”
“Can both change later?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Both again.”
“Unfortunately.”
She hugged me.
After she left, I found an envelope on the front porch.
No stamp.
Hand-delivered.
My name was written on it.
For one moment, I thought of Wes.
Then I recognized the handwriting.
Carol.
May you like
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Talia is making a mistake. If you really love your family, meet me before I do something none of us can undo.
