fifty years.
This was different.
It wasn’t grief.
It was shame.
“Ashley kept saying it was basically mine eventually.”
“And you wanted to believe her.”
“Yes.”
“Because you needed money.”
He nodded.
“And each time you needed more money, I became a little less alive in your imagination.”
“Mom, no.”
“Yes.”
I sat across from him.
“You didn’t want me dead. But you needed my future property badly enough that you stopped respecting my present ownership.”
He covered his face.
I wanted to comfort him.
My hands almost moved.
Then
