Chapter 6: Sunday at Two O'Clock
They arrived within three minutes of each other.
Erica came first, without Derek, carrying a container of the almond cookies she used to bring to every family gathering before things went wrong between us.
She set them on the counter without comment and sat at the kitchen table.
My mother came next.
She was dressed carefully, the way she always dressed when she felt she might need to hold her ground — pressed blouse, good earrings, the particular posture that said she had already decided how this was going to go.
She looked around my kitchen as she sat down.
Her eyes moved to the cookies Erica had brought, then to me, then to the table.
"Where's Abigail?" she asked.
"At a friend's house," I said.
"This isn't her conversation."
My mother folded her hands.
"All right."
I sat down across from them both.
"I'm not here to punish anyone," I said.
"I want to say that first.
I'm not interested in punishing.
I'm interested in understanding what happened and deciding what comes next."
My mother nodded slowly.
Erica was looking at the table.
"The house," I said.
"I want to understand the full decision.
Not the version where it was about protecting Erica's marriage.
The real version."
My mother's hands tightened slightly.
"Megan, your father was very ill.
We were making decisions under a great deal of pressure—"
"I know that," I said.
"I was there.
I drove him to his appointments for eight months.
I sat in the waiting rooms.
I was there."
"You were," she said quietly.
"And while I was doing that, you and he were making decisions about the property that you didn't tell me about."
"We thought it was simpler—"
"Simpler for who?"
Erica looked up.
"Mom," she said.
"Just tell her."
My mother looked at Erica.
Something passed between them — old and layered and not entirely comfortable.
"Your father was afraid," my mother said finally.
"Not about Erica's marriage.
That was — that was the reason I gave you because it was easier.
The truth is that he was afraid of what would happen to me.
He thought that if the house had to be divided after I was gone, it would cause conflict.
He wanted it to stay whole.
And he chose Erica to hold it because—" She stopped.
"Because why?" I asked.
She looked at me directly for the first time since she'd sat down.
"Because he thought you were strong enough not to need it.
And he thought Erica wasn't."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"He meant it as a compliment," she said.
"To you."
"He meant it as a compliment," I repeated.
"Megan—"
"He looked at his two daughters," I said, "and he decided that the one who had shown up, who had driven him to his appointments, who had never asked for anything — she was the one who could be passed over.
Because she was strong enough to take it."
My mother's eyes filled.
She didn't speak.
"And you let him," I said.
"And then you kept it from me.
For four years."
"I didn't know how to tell you."
"You called me every time Erica needed childcare," I said.
"You found the words for that."
Erica put her hand flat on the table.
"I want to fix it," she said.
"I've already spoken to a solicitor.
I can have my name removed and both of our names added.
It's not complicated legally.
I should have done it two years ago."
I looked at her.
"I didn't," she said, "because Mom kept saying it would upset the balance.
That it would open things up.
I let her talk me out of it and I shouldn't have."
My mother made a small sound.
"I was trying to protect—"
"You were trying to keep control," Erica said.
Not cruelly.
Just clearly.
"That's different."
The word landed in the room and stayed there.
My mother looked at Erica as though she had been sl@pped.
Then she looked at me.
Then she looked down at her folded hands.
"I did what I thought was right," she said.
"I know," I said.
"I believe you.
And it still caused real harm.
Both of those things are true."
She was quiet for a long time.
Outside, a car went past.
The refrigerator hummed.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
It came out smaller than she intended.
"I want you to stop using Abigail as a way to manage me," I said.
"I want you to stop treating Erica's needs as the default and mine as optional.
I want you to be honest with me, even when it's uncomfortable.
And I want you to agree to let Erica fix the deed."
She looked at Erica.
Erica nodded once.
My mother looked back at me.
Her jaw was tight.
Her eyes were still wet.
"All right," she said.
It wasn't a warm agreement.
It wasn't a breakthrough.
It was a woman who had built a system over many years being told, clearly and specifically, that the system was over.
May you like
But it was real.
And real was what I had come for.
