“Mom told him that if we refuse, he may want to reconsider the will.”
I just stood there. Then I said, very calmly, “Fine.”
Dave looked up. “Fine?”
His shoulders dropped in relief, which annoyed me even more.
Then I added, “But not just a basic one.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean if your mother wants science, she’s getting science. Full family matching.
The extended panel.”
Dave blinked. “Why?”
Because I was furious. Because I had nothing to hide.
Because some cold instinct in me wanted every ugly little thread dragged into the light. So I said, “Because I’m done being polite.”
He stared at me for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”
She called me the next day in a voice dipped in honey and said, “I’m so glad you’re being reasonable.”
I said, “Don’t thank me yet.”
The test was done.
Then we waited. Patricia treated the wait like she was planning a coronation. She insisted the results be opened at Sunday dinner.
She said Robert deserved to hear everything together “as a family.” She made it an event. When we arrived, she had set the table. Candles.
Silver. Cloth napkins. Even a silver platter in the center.
And on that platter sat the envelope. Dave muttered, “This is insane.”
