Lisa spun toward my father.
“You told me she was transferring it.”
“I told you I was handling the situation.”
“You said this house would be ours.”
One of the volunteers slowed while carrying a stack of towels.
Dad noticed.
“Not here,” he muttered.
I almost laughed.
Apparently secrecy was still important when he was the one being embarrassed.
Lisa looked around the living room.
Beds.
Linens.
Boxes of supplies.
Labels on the kitchen shelves.
“She did this because of us.”
The woman shook her head.
“Cathy never mentioned either of you when she arranged the donation. She spoke about patients she met during treatment and the financial burden their families faced.”
Lisa became silent.
So did Dad.
And something about that truth felt even more powerful.
Mom hadn’t spent her final months plotting revenge.
She hadn’t transferred the house simply to punish them.
She had seen people struggling and decided she could help.
