“I did, but that doesn’t matter. That’s their home, and they’re at school. They can’t afford to buy me out, and I wouldn’t ask.”
“You wouldn’t ask?” Mom puts her hands on her hips. “What do you mean, you wouldn’t ask? You’re going to have a mouth to feed soon. You’ve got to be prepared to do whatever it takes to deal with that, okay?”
I bring my hands up, palms facing toward my mom, hoping it will make her calm down a little. “If Dad wanted us to sell the place, he would have left instructions to do that.”
“Your dad never had any sense.” Mom scowls. “He always left me to pick up the pieces. And now you’re letting those boys run you out of your house. You’re his only real child. His only daughter. They’re nothing to him, so why the hell did he leave you all an equal share? Maybe you should contest the will. People take blood relations seriously. Maybe the judge would throw out their claim to the house.”
I shake my head, my heart aching at the thought of making those good men homeless. I could never do something like that, even if it did mean I’d be able to put a roof over my baby’s head. “Dad didn’t die of dementia, Mom. He was of sound mind when he put his will together.”
“That is debatable. I just don’t want to see you get the rough end of the stick. You need this more than they do. They’re not worried about you, are they?”
“They are… I mean, they were.” I swallow, the memory of their disappointed faces cutting into my heart. I can’t explain any of what happened to my mom, and I feel terrible that she’s assuming the worst about them.
Mom shakes her head as if to say I’m an idiot who knows nothing about the world. Maybe she’s right. Nineteen is hardly a grand old age, and here I am having to navigate birth, death, inheritance, and relationships. No wonder everything seems to be falling apart around me.
“Were? You were there for a few days. They changed their minds just like that. Like father like sons.” Mom sighs, running her hands over her face. “I just… I don’t even know where to go with this.”
“I… I don’t know either, Mom.”
“Your dad… I just wish he would have told you what his plans were for the house. If he left instructions, none of this would be happening.”
I haven’t told Mom he left me a letter with the will. Uncle Walter gave it to me at the diner, but I still haven’t felt like I can open it, but maybe Mom’s right. Maybe I should now. If nothing else, maybe it will help me to put to bed some of my anxieties about how things were left between us. I’ve been a coward to hold the letter sealed in my purse for so long.
“I’m really tired,” I say, “and you look tired. I’m going to go to bed. I’ll talk to you more about this tomorrow.”
Mom sighs, the weariness she’s feeling oozing from every pore. I feel so sorry that I’m adding to her challenges. “You really need to take this seriously, Maggie. You can’t be sentimental when it comes to putting food on the table for your kid. You’ve got to do whatever it takes.”
At that moment, I see my mom more clearly than I’ve ever seen her before. She’s a hard worker, a person who has struggled to do what she thought was best. It always hurt me that she chose to work rather than spend time with me, but for her, it wasn’t a choice she made maliciously. It’s just life and the choices that sometimes must be made in a single-parent household.
“I will, Mom. I promise. I learned from the best.”
Her eyes widen as though I’ve shocked her to the core, but she doesn’t say anything, just turns to leave the room to shower away the grind of the day.
In my room, I search my purse for the letter. The envelope has gotten a little crumpled around the edges, and there are some marks from where it’s rubbed against other things in the bag. I rest it on my lap, using my hands to smooth it. I run my finger over my name that Dad printed in block capitals. It seems formal and unfamiliar. When I turn it over, it’s sealed fast. Maybe he licked it to gum it closed. He touched this paper.
As I try to open it carefully, my mouth goes dry. Licking over my lips I take a deep breath, turning over the letter and finding his cursive on the other side. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach when I read, To my darling daughter Maggie.
Darling daughter. He never called me that in real life, but I wish he had. I wish that I could hear his voice say the words even once.