“Because you already took enough from her.”
Linda actually laughed when I said it. Short, sharp, like I’d embarrassed myself. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I looked at the rest of the table instead of her. “Mom stopped answering my calls because you were screening them. Half the time she sounded drugged. And every time I asked why her bank account kept dropping, there was another excuse.”
Her husband muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.
Linda sat up straighter. “I was caring for a stroke patient by myself while you lived two states away.”
“No,” I said. “You were paying yourself.”
That finally killed the room.
My cousin Rachel slowly lowered her glass. My uncle stopped chewing. Even the waitress froze beside the dessert tray for a second before backing away again.
Linda started talking fast then. Too fast. About gas money. Missed work. Sacrifices. How nobody helped her. But she kept avoiding one thing.
Mom had changed her will six months before she died.
Not to cut everyone off. Just Linda.
I’d found out because Mom called me crying after one of Linda’s “doctor appointment” days. She thought the medication was making her confused because Linda kept putting papers in front of her to sign.
“She thinks I don’t notice things anymore,” Mom whispered to me.
Linda’s face went gray when my uncle asked, very quietly, “Is that true?”
“She was manipulated,” Linda snapped.
“No,” I said. “She was scared of you.”
Linda shoved her chair back so hard it scraped the floor. “You know what? Fine. You all take care of each other next time.”
Nobody stopped her when she grabbed her purse.
The only sound after the front door slammed was my aunt folding Mom’s funeral program in half and setting it beside Linda’s untouched plate.