“No,” I said. “It looks exactly like what it is.”
Silence pressed in around us. Even the house felt like it was listening.
Leah finally sat back in her chair, the edge gone from her posture. “Why would she do this?” she asked, softer now.
I looked down at the recipe box, then opened it and pulled out one of the index cards. The edges were worn, the ink slightly faded.
“I found these after she passed,” I said, sliding the card toward them.
Evan hesitated, then picked it up.
It wasn’t a recipe.
Just her handwriting.
Claire always stays. Even when it’s hard. Even when there’s nothing to gain.
His eyes moved across the words once. Then again.
“She wrote that months ago,” I said. “Before any of this.”
Leah leaned closer to read over his shoulder. Her expression shifted—not to anger this time, but something quieter. Something like understanding she didn’t want.
Evan set the card down too quickly.
“So that’s it?” he said. “You just keep everything?”
I let out a slow breath. “This was never about keeping things.”
“Of course it is,” he said bitterly. “Two hundred thirty-five thousand dollars and a lake house? That’s exactly what it’s about.”
I shook my head. “No. That’s what it’s worth to you.”
That hit harder than anything else I’d said.
