He hesitated. There was a faint clink, like he’d set a glass down. “She told me you were being difficult about the property. That you didn’t care about it anymore, that you never visited. She said she was just trying to… simplify things.”
Simplify. That was one way to describe rewriting history.
I looked down at the trust documents spread across my desk, at Mom’s signature in blue ink. I remembered her warning that Victoria would try to twist things if she could. Mom had been many things—a gardener, a storyteller, someone who could make an entire room feel warm just by walking into it—but naïve wasn’t one of them.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” I said, and I felt something settle inside of me, a quiet resolve snapping into place. “I won’t cause any problems.”
“Good,” he sighed, relief already flooding his voice. “That’s all I—”
“I’ll handle this my way,” I added.He didn’t know what that meant. Victoria didn’t either. But Mom would have.