Something flashed across his face. Perhaps shame. Perhaps just annoyance at being caught.
“I loved Dad,” he said.
“You loved what he provided,” I corrected. “Security. Status. A safety net for your riskier ventures. What was it this time, Brandon? Another bad investment? Gambling debts?”
His silence was answer enough.
“Your father built something that would have sustained generations if you’d had the patience to nurture it,” I said. I placed the envelope on the dresser. “Instead, you tried to sell it for quick cash.”
“The orchard business is dying,” he snapped. “Dad was too stubborn to see it. Too tied to outdated ways.”
“The development would have made you rich,” I finished for him, “while destroying everything your father valued. Everything I valued. You could have had a comfortable retirement, a condo in Florida, no worries except the worry of living with the knowledge that I’d allowed my husband’s legacy to be bulldozed for vacation homes.”
Brandon shook his head as if I were the one being unreasonable. Even now, he couldn’t understand.
“Take the letter and go,” I said. “Read it or don’t, but either way, this is the last time you’ll set foot in this house.”
He snatched the envelope and pushed past me without another word. I listened to his footsteps on the stairs, the slam of the front door, the engine of his rental car roaring to life. Only when the sound had faded completely did I allow myself to sit on the edge of the bed, surrounded by the wreckage of Brandon’s final violation.
I didn’t cry. I hadn’t cried since that moment on County Road 27 when I realized my children had become strangers. Instead, I began to put the room back in order, folding Nicholas’s flannel shirts that still smelled faintly of him, gathering scattered photographs, restoring order to the chaos my son had left behind.
As darkness fell, I moved to the kitchen and made a cup of tea, carrying it to the front porch where I settled into Nicholas’s rocking chair. Above me, stars began to emerge in the clear spring sky. Below, the orchard stretched into darkness, the trees we’d planted together now mature and strong.
