“You’re healthy. You’re strong. I can tell.”
“I’m good, Grandma.”
“Don’t let them break you again.”
Her grip tightens.
“You’re the strongest one in this family. You always were.”
She reaches under her pillow and pulls out a small envelope. D helped her hide it from the staff.
“Harold pays to keep tabs.”
Inside, a photocopy of a property deed. The two-acre parcel. My name, clear as day.
“That land is yours,” Ruth says. “It always was. Your father never got it transferred. He’s been furious about it ever since.”
I stare at the document.
For 16 years, I assumed Harold had found some legal way around my refusal. Some technicality. Some forged signature.
He hadn’t. The land was still mine.
“He tells people it’s part of Lindon Properties,” Ruth whispers. “But it’s not. He never had the right.”
A knock on the door. Vivian’s voice, clipped.
“Time’s up.”
I fold the envelope into my jacket pocket. I lean down and kiss Ruth’s forehead.
“That’s my girl,” she murmurs.
I walk out past my mother, who doesn’t ask how Ruth is doing. She checks her lipstick in her phone screen and says,
“Let’s go. I have a fitting.”