The realtor’s estimate made my head spin – $650,000. Enough to pay off my debts and fund the kids’ college. All I had to do was get my sister to agree to sell Mom’s house. How hard could it be?
When Dena changed the locks, I hired a lawyer. When I broke in and saw the renovations, I called the police. Then I saw the will.
Mom’s shaky signature stared back at me, notarized three weeks after I’d canceled our visit because of a PTA meeting. “Everything to Dena,” it read. My attorney sighed, “She has caretaker documentation from twelve years of doctors’ visits. You can’t fight this.”
I raged for days. Then one rainy afternoon, I found myself driving to the cemetery instead of the courthouse. Standing at Mom’s grave, the truth washed over me like the cold November rain. I hadn’t just abandoned Mom – I’d abandoned Dena.
The first time I showed up with coffee instead of court papers, Dena froze like I was a home invader. By the third visit, she let me weed the garden. By Christmas, we were hanging Mom’s old ornaments together.
Yesterday, I helped Dena turn Mom’s bedroom into a counseling space for exhausted caregivers. As we painted the walls (butter yellow, Mom’s favorite), Dena suddenly said, “I kept expecting you to stop coming again.” My roller stilled as the weight of those twelve years settled between us.
The house will never be mine. But watching Dena teach a young mother how to navigate hospice paperwork, I realized something – this is what inheritance really looks like.
