She had known exactly what would happen.
Years earlier I sat beside her hospital bed while she struggled to speak through the exhaustion of illness. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, but she insisted the window remain open a few inches so she could imagine the ocean breeze.
“Rebecca,” she whispered while squeezing my hand. “The beach house is our family’s legacy. My parents built it themselves and we raised you there every summer.”
I remember telling her we should talk about treatment plans instead of property, but she shook her head with stubborn determination.
“Diana has wanted that house from the moment she walked through the front door,” my mother said quietly. “She looks at it like a prize instead of a home. I will not let her take it.”
Her longtime attorney Evelyn Porter stood beside the bed explaining the legal structure of the trust while my mother signed the final pages.
Back then I barely understood the legal language, but one thing was clear.
The house would always belong to me.
My phone buzzed on the desk and pulled me back to the present.