Texts from cousins of Samantha’s I had not spoken to in years, which meant someone had been making calls of their own.
Voicemails whose previews contained the words how could you and what did you do and call me immediately.
I read the texts first because I have always preferred to understand the complete landscape before responding to any part of it.
The narrative that had assembled itself in the two hours I was trimming roses was that I had sabotaged my daughter’s wedding out of spite. That I had canceled everything as a form of revenge. That I had deliberately chosen her wedding week to demonstrate my power over the family and that this was the
kind of woman I had always been, controlling, difficult, unable to let my daughter have anything that was her own.
Greg had sent one text that said simply: You will be hearing from our attorney.
I set the phone down.
I thought about what Richard would have said, and I knew he would have said something quietly dry about the attorney, and I allowed myself a brief moment of missing him with the specific sharpness that still arrives sometimes without warning, ten years on.
Then I called my own attorney.
Patricia Vance had handled my legal and estate matters for twelve years and she had the quality I most value in professionals, which is that she told me the truth without managing my feelings about it. I told her what had happened, in order, including the gift of the stone house the previous week. She asked several precise questions. Then she said she would need to review the gift documentation and would call me back within the hour.
While I waited, I made lunch.
This is something I have noticed about myself in moments of difficulty, that I become very practical. I make food. I do the dishes. I attend to whatever is directly in front of me that can be attended to, not as avoidance but because the body’s ordinary requirements continue regardless of what the mind is managing, and meeting them is its own form of steadiness.
