He had decided the house would not go directly to either daughter.
After his death, it was to be sold.
A portion would cover final expenses.
A portion would fund a small scholarship through the community college where our mother had once taught.
The remainder would be divided equally between Vanessa and me.
The truck was promised to Harold’s grandson, who had spent three summers helping Dad rebuild its engine.
Dad’s retirement accounts had named beneficiaries.
His checking balance was irrelevant compared to what Vanessa apparently imagined.
She stared at him.
“You were splitting it equally?”
“I was.”
The word was small.
But Vanessa heard the tense.
“Were?”
Dad looked at his attorney’s summary.
“I haven’t decided what changes I’m making.”
Her face collapsed.
“Dad.”
He folded the paper.
