After My Husband’s Memorial Service, My Son Drove Me To A Remote Road And Said: “This Is Where You Get Out. The House And Business Are Mine Now.” I Stood In The Dust, Clutching My Bag, As He Drove Away Without Looking Back. No Phone. No Money. And That’s When I Realized – I Wasn’t Alone. I Was Free…

“There’s a developer interested in the land.”

“Developer for a luxury housing community,” Melissa explained, her eyes bright with the prospect of money. “They’ll pay 7 million. Mom, we can all start fresh.”

Fresh.

As if the life Nicholas and I had built was something stale, something to be discarded. As if the legacy of Canton family orchards, our sustainable farming practices, our refusal to sell to the big grocery chains that would squeeze our workers, our annual donation of 10% of our crop to the local food banks was nothing compared to the prospect of cookie cutter homes for wealthy weekenders from Philadelphia. “Your father would never sell this land for development,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

“And I didn’t sign anything.”

“You don’t need to,” Brandon explained with practiced patience. “The business was in Dad’s name. The house, too.

Pennsylvania isn’t a community property state.”

I knew then that they had planned this, not just after Nicholas fell ill, but perhaps before. How long had my son been waiting for his father to die so he could liquidate our life’s work? How many times had Melissa called not to check on Nicholas’s health, but to ensure their plan was still in motion?

“I need time,” I said, standing up. “I’m going to bed. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

But there would be no discussion.

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