Marcus stood abruptly. “I’m getting a lawyer.”
Helen’s voice was almost bored. “That’s your right. But your mother’s will was drafted by one of the finest estate attorneys in Oklahoma. It’s ironclad. You’ll spend considerable money and arrive at the same result.”
Marcus stared at me. “You’re not seriously going to accept this.”
I looked at the envelope in my hands. Jenny’s handwriting. Her slanted, unmistakable script.
“Your mother wanted me to have the farm,” I said.
Helen handed me a rusted key — old-fashioned, heavy, the kind that belongs to a different era entirely.
“This opens the farmhouse. The address is on the deed.”
I took the key and didn’t say anything else. There wasn’t anything left to say.
What Marcus Did the Moment He Owned the House
I drove back to the house on Brentwood Circle that afternoon — the house where Jenny and I had lived for eighteen years, the house where she had passed away in our bedroom holding my hand and whispering words I was still trying to fully hear. It wasn’t my house anymore. I understood that, technically. But I hadn’t understood it in my body yet.
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