My youngest, Noah—five years old—sat on the floor with toy tractors. She barely acknowledged him.
For three days leading up to the funeral, she toured the house like an inspector.
Cabinets were opened. Walls were tapped. Notes were typed into her phone.
“This can go,” she muttered in the dining room. “Nobody wants dark wood anymore; it’s outdated.”
In the barn, she wrinkled her nose. “The smell alone will scare off buyers.”
“Buyers?” I asked, sharper than I intended.
She gave me a tight smile. “Kevin, be realistic. This land is worth a fortune now. There’s lake access on the north end. Developers would fight over it.”
A chill ran down my spine. “This is our home.”
She let out a soft laugh, glancing past my kids as they played in the barn like background noise. “It was my dad’s home.”
The night before the funeral, she cornered me in the kitchen while I stood at the sink.
“Let’s not drag this out,” she said with a polished smile. “You have three days.”
I blinked. “Three days for what?”
“To pack up. I already have a developer lined up. Groundbreaking starts next week. It’s just business.”
