Called Travis three times this week, I read in an entry from six months earlier. He’s screening my calls. When he finally answered, I could hear a basketball game in the background. He said he was overwhelmed but would visit soon. That was February. It’s now June.
The hardest entries were the holidays.
Made a small turkey anyway. Set the table for four out of habit, though I knew no one would come. Stella texted, “They’re spending Christmas with her boyfriend’s family in Vermont.” Travis didn’t even bother with an excuse this year.
That night I slept in broken pieces, Holly’s words threading through my dreams.
The next morning, I found a wooden chest pushed under the bed in the main bedroom. Inside were bundles of letters tied with faded ribbon, correspondence between Holly and Ben that stretched across their forty-year marriage. One letter, written just weeks before Ben’s death, hit me like a blow.
My dearest Holly, Ben had written in shaky handwriting. The doctor says I don’t have much time, so I need to say what matters. Our children have become strangers to us, not in one dramatic moment, but in a thousand small betrayals. You’ll want to leave them everything because that’s what mothers do. Don’t reward those who abandoned us in our hour of need. Remember what we built together, Holly. Do what’s right, even if it’s hard, even if it breaks your heart.
I returned the letter to its envelope with care, and I finally understood how long this decision had been forming. Holly wasn’t acting out of spite. She was acting out of truth. She had reached the point where she could no longer pretend blood was the same thing as loyalty.
My phone buzzed with Travis’s name. I hesitated, then answered.
“Hey,” he said, a little too cheerful. “Just checking on you. I made your favorite pasta. You coming home?”
“I’m staying here another night,” I said. “There’s a lot to sort through.”
“No problem,” he replied smoothly. “I was thinking we should take a weekend trip soon. Just us, like before. We could reconnect after everything that’s happened.”
The attempt was so transparent it made me feel sick.
“Maybe,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “I’ll let you know.”
For the next week, Travis transformed into a version of himself that was almost convincing, if I hadn’t known what was underneath it. He called daily to ask about my well-being. He cleaned the house. He cooked elaborate meals when I came back. He brought flowers. The performance looked perfect, but it was empty. His eyes always carried calculation, measuring whether the act was working.
Then the official notice arrived. Stella was challenging the will, claiming Holly had been mentally unfit and manipulated. The accusations painted me as a schemer, an opportunist who had isolated Holly and poisoned her against her own children.
I called Mrs. Keller immediately, hands shaking.
“I expected this,” she said calmly. “Stella spoke to three attorneys before finding one willing to take the case. Don’t worry. Holly anticipated it and prepared for it.”
Two days before the hearing, Mrs. Keller asked me to come in and review the plan. She set a small digital recorder on her desk.
“Holly made these recordings during her final months,” she explained. “She did it knowingly and willingly.”
She pressed play.
Holly’s voice filled the room, thinner than I remembered, but clear and steady.
My daughter Stella visited today for the first time in eight months. She spent twelve minutes complaining about her job, twenty minutes scrolling on her phone, and left when I mentioned my scan results. She asked if she could borrow my mother’s diamond earrings. I said no. She called me selfish.
Mrs. Keller stopped the audio. “There are dozens of recordings like this. Holly was documenting their behavior long before she revised the will. Combined with the psychiatric evaluation and medical testimony, Stella has no case.”
The courtroom was small and stifling. Stella sat beside her attorney, a nervous man who kept shuffling papers. Travis sat behind them, separated but clearly aligned. When I entered with Mrs. Keller, his expression cracked for a split second, revealing raw hatred before it smoothed back into false concern.
The hearing was over in less than an hour. The judge listened as Stella’s attorney presented a weak argument. Then Mrs. Keller dismantled it piece by piece with documentation, medical testimony, and Holly’s recordings.
The judge dismissed the challenge and ordered Stella to cover the fees.
What followed moved fast. The local paper ran a short article about the case. People talked. Stella’s friends started canceling plans. The boutique where she worked part-time asked her to take time off until the attention died down. Her boyfriend stopped showing up on her social media.
That night, Travis’s careful mask finally dropped. When I came home to pack more belongings, he was waiting with a half-empty whiskey glass in his hand.
“Happy now?” he snapped, all pretense gone. “You turned my own mother against me from beyond the grave.”
“Holly did that herself,” I said quietly. “She just needed someone to witness it.”
“You think you’re clever,” he hissed, stepping closer. “You played the perfect daughter-in-law while you planned to take everything.”
In that moment, I saw him clearly, not as my husband or even as Holly’s son, but as the selfish, entitled man both of us had finally recognized. It wasn’t a dramatic revelation. It was simply the last piece clicking into place.
“I’m moving to the cottage permanently,” I said, stepping past him. “You can keep this house for now. Separation details will go through attorneys.”
“Divorce?” His face twisted with real shock. “You can’t be serious. After everything I’ve done for you…”
The sentence hung there, ridiculous enough to almost make me laugh. Instead, I walked upstairs to pack, Holly’s words repeating in my head.
Forgive no one. Let them beg. Let them kneel.
The cottage became my refuge while everything unfolded. I spent my days sorting through Holly’s possessions, and with every drawer and box, I found pieces of her life I’d never been allowed to see. At night I slept in her bedroom, strangely comforted by the faded floral wallpaper and the steady ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall.
Three weeks after I moved out, Travis showed up at the cottage. His confidence was gone, replaced by a careful humility that never reached his eyes. He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.
“Can we talk?” he asked, trying to look past me into the house.
I stepped outside and closed the door behind me. Holly’s space wasn’t for him.
“The bank called,” he said after a tense pause. “They’re questioning some business loans without Mom’s co-signing power.” He hesitated, eyes fixed on a spot beyond my shoulder.
“And?” I said, refusing to fill in the blanks for him.
“I’m in a tight spot, Court,” he admitted. “Just until things settle. Five thousand would cover the mortgage this month and the car payment.”
I studied his face, the same face I’d woken up next to for three years, believing I knew the person behind it.
“Your mother left everything to me,” I said evenly. “You left her with nothing. I’m honoring her wishes.”
His expression cracked. “She’s dead. What does it matter now? This isn’t about Mom. This is about you being vindictive.”
“No,” I said. “This is about consequences. Holly saw you clearly in the end, and now I do too.”
He stormed off to his car. I didn’t feel triumph. I felt certainty. The kind that comes when you finally stop lying to yourself.
Stella was next, not in person, but in a frantic voicemail left at 2:00 a.m.
“My landlord’s threatening eviction,” she slurred, sounding drunk. “I lost my job because of that stupid court case. This is your fault. The least you can do is help me.”
I deleted the message without replying.
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