She squeezed her keys until they clicked. “But you were just protecting what was rightfully yours. What your mom left you.”
I thought about the countless family dinners I hadn’t been invited to, the holidays I’d spent with friends because “it seemed like you’d be more comfortable doing your own thing,” the graduation party I’d only witnessed through filtered photos.“It was never about the house,” I said. “Not really. The house was the last piece of Mom that she could still protect. She knew someone would try to take it if she didn’t.”
Lily nodded, biting her lip. “Those letters,” she said, nodding toward my hands, “you should read them. Your mom… she wrote about you a lot. About how proud she was. Victoria kept them from you because… I think she couldn’t stand the thought of anyone being more important than her.”
The words landed like a stone and then dissolved into something else—understanding, maybe, and sorrow for a version of Lily who’d never stood a chance.
Later that evening, after Lily had left—with a promise, tentative but real, that she’d be back—I sat on the porch alone, the stack of letters in my lap.