Warren’s letter ran three pages. He wrote that he had watched me spend forty-nine years making room, at every table, in every plan, for everyone, and that he had come to fear the day it would be mistaken for the belief that nothing was mine.
He wrote that the lake house was mine, that the deciding was mine, and that he had left the trust deliberately unfinished so that the last word on who received it would be spoken by me alone, in a room, on a day I chose. Then, in the final paragraph, he suggested the one thing I had never once considered. That I stop lending the lake house to people who called it theirs, and start living in it.
