“I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting to be included. We’ve been estranged for five years. Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe this was his way of making amends.”
I thought about my father, about his avoidance and his silence and his endless capitulation to everyone else’s needs. Making amends would have required courage he never possessed. But leaving something in a will, a gesture that couldn’t be contested or argued with, that took only the courage of knowing he wouldn’t be alive to face the consequences? That sounded exactly like Howard Robertson.
The will reading took place two weeks later in a conference room that smelled like old coffee and new carpet. I arrived early, deliberately, and sat in a corner seat that gave me a view of the door. My mother entered first, leaning heavily on Grant’s arm. She looked terrible, hollowed out by grief in a way that made her seem decades older. Paige came next, visibly pregnant and supported by her husband, Mitchell. None of them noticed me immediately. Why would they? They weren’t looking for me. The attorney cleared his throat.
“Now that everyone is present, we can begin.”
Everyone. My mother’s head swiveled, scanning the room. Her eyes found me and her face went through a complicated series of expressions: shock, hope, anger, grief.
“Tiffany.”
“Dr. Walker,”
I corrected for what felt like the thousandth time.
“You came.”
She started toward me, arms outstretched, and I held up a hand to stop her.
“I came for the reading. Nothing else.”
The attorney intervened smoothly, directing everyone to their seats. What followed was exactly what I expected. The house went to my mother, along with the bulk of the estate. Grant received my father’s car collection and some investment accounts. Paige got jewelry, furniture, and a substantial cash gift to help with the new baby. And then the attorney turned to me.
“To my daughter Tiffany, I leave the beach house in Rehoboth and its contents, along with the attached letter to be read privately.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even Paige’s perpetual motion stilled. My mother’s mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to speak.
“That’s impossible. Howard wouldn’t. That house was supposed to go to the grandchildren.”
“We discussed it. The will is quite clear, Mrs. Robertson. The Rehoboth property is bequeathed to Dr. Tiffany Walker, formerly Tiffany Robertson, with no conditions or restrictions.”
The beach house. I remembered it from childhood, before Paige’s needs consumed everything, when my father would take me there alone sometimes and we’d fish off the pier in companionable silence. Those weekends had stopped when I was about eight, around the time Paige started her first round of therapy. I hadn’t thought about them in years. The attorney handed me a sealed envelope, cream-colored and heavy. My father’s handwriting spelled out my name on the front. Both names. Tiffany Robertson Walker. I tucked it into my purse without opening it. Paige burst out first.
“This is ridiculous. She abandoned this family. She didn’t come to Dad’s funeral. She doesn’t deserve anything.”
“You’re right,”
I stood up, slinging my purse over my shoulder.
“I didn’t come to Dad’s funeral. Just like none of you came to my graduation. Just like none of you came to my wedding. Just like none of you ever came for me, for anything, ever. The difference is I stopped expecting you to show up a long time ago. You apparently still had expectations of me. That seems like a personal problem.”
