The one he doted on. The one who could do no wrong. So when she got the short end of the stick, neither of her brothers felt sorry. If anything, they saw it as a long-overdue balance. She’d dropped everything when their father got sick—left her job in Chicago, ended a relationship, and moved back into the home she once fought to escape.
Not for inheritance. Not even for guilt. She came back because she loved him. Because when the doctors said “weeks, maybe months,” she couldn’t imagine him dying surrounded by strangers. It had been fourteen months.