After that, I worked every morning. I ironed linens, scrubbed the old stone fireplace, and slowly learned that nobody could take away what my own hands had built. Eleanor never told me outright that my father was wrong. She didn’t need to. She simply kept the porch light burning at a house Richard had never had the right to lock.

Richard did not challenge the will. A week later, my mother arrived at the lodge alone, carrying a small suitcase and an apology she had obviously practiced before abandoning the words. She admitted that twelve years earlier, she had stood in the kitchen straightening mail because she was afraid. I couldn’t forgive her that day. Instead, I made tea, showed her the guest room, and let that be enough. Weeks later, Megan sent a message saying she had been ashamed that she didn’t know how to stand beside me.