Ethan held it.
Then asked:
“Can I go alone?”
“Yes,” I said.
Daniel started:
“Ethan—”
I turned on my brother.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Ethan put on his borrowed coat.
Backpack over one shoulder.
Still carrying everything he owned.
Except now there was a trust waiting.
A wooden box.
And proof that the family he’d never known had known about him for most of his life.
At the door, he stopped.
He looked back at me.
“Your mother bought yellow roses every Thursday after my birthday.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“She said they made the house feel less empty.”
My throat tightened.
Then he said:
“I thought I was taking care of her.”
He looked down at the wooden box.
“Apparently she was trying to find a way to take care of me.”
Then he left.
And for the first time since Mom died, I understood why she’d insisted Ethan attend the will reading.
