By the time the fog curled around the driveway, the house looked like it had already chosen a side. Light in the windows, her car in my mother’s spot, my father pacing on the porch as if proximity might make him brave. Victoria’s version had spread faster than salt in seawater: I was unstable, obsessed, incapable of letting go. What she hadn’t counted on was the quiet weight of documents and the officer willing to read them aloud. When the will surfaced—my name inked in my mother’s looping script, dated after the illness but before the morphine—Victoria’s face went slack, like something inside her had finally heard the crash she’d been outrunning for years. My father’s eyes skittered between us, between the house, the officer, the papers trembling in my hand, as if searching for the safest lie to live inside. The safest lie, for once, wasn’t his to cho… Continues…
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