CHAPTER 8
I pointed toward the comfortable armchair near the stone fireplace, taking a seat across from him as the rain continued to fall outside.
"Megan packed her bags yesterday morning," Robert choked out, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "When she realized Arthur Vance wasn't bluffing about the trust, she called her mother and moved back to Charlotte."
"She didn't love you, Robert," I said plainly, keeping my voice firm yet free of any vindictive satisfaction. "She loved the idea of a three-million-dollar beach house and an easy inheritance."
"I was so blind, Mom," Robert sobbed, shaking his head in deep remorse. "She kept telling me you were lonely, that you were getting confused, that you needed us to take over the property taxes and management."
"I worked forty-two years behind an industrial sewing machine, Robert," I reminded him, holding up my hands to show the faint scars across my knuckles. "My mind is as sharp today as it was the day I signed the mortgage for this land."
"I know," Robert whispered, looking at my scarred hands with a sudden wave of overwhelming guilt. "I forgot how hard you and Dad worked for every single inch of this place."
"You didn't just forget, son," I said softly, looking him directly in the eyes. "You allowed someone else to disrespect the labor that raised you."
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Robert sat in silence for a long time, the heavy ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway filling the space between us as the storm began to pass outside.
"I don't care about the money, Mom," Robert said, looking up at me with genuine sincerity returning to his eyes. "I just... I don't want to lose my mother."
