“Let them live their lives a little longer without this shadow.”
I nodded because I loved him. But I knew better. I knew our children.
When they finally arrived at our modest farmhouse on the outskirts of Milfield, Pennsylvania, the same house where they’d grown up, where Nicholas and I had built Canton family orchards from 20 acres of neglected apple trees into one of the most respected organic fruit operations in the state, they didn’t come with comfort. They came with questions about the will. “Mom, I’m just trying to be practical,” Brandon said, his voice taking on that condescending tone he’d perfected sometime after his first six-f figureure bonus.
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