“I don’t either,” I said. A gust of wind pushed the leaves across the yard, like the house was breathing. Fern pressed her palm to her eyes.
“This feels like giving up,” she whispered. “It isn’t,” I told her. “It’s planning.
It’s me making sure the one person who never treated this place like leverage has a roof over her head.”
Fern laughed through tears. “You think I’m going to take your roof?”
“You’re not taking it,” I said. “I’m giving it.”
She shook her head again, softer now.
“I don’t know how to hold that,” she said. “Then we’ll learn,” I said. And that was the first time I saw it in her—fear, not for me, but for what safety might do to her.
Some people are so used to living on the edge that peace feels like a cliff. 3
Two days later, Calvin showed up at my door. No warning.
Just his truck in my driveway and his grin like we were still kids and he was stopping by to borrow something he wouldn’t return. Fern was in the laundry room. I saw her freeze when she heard his voice.
“Bea!” Calvin called. “Hey! You home?”
I stepped onto the porch.
“Cal,” I said. He hugged me without asking. The hug was too tight, too performative, like he was proving something to an invisible audience.
“Mom’s been worried,” he said immediately. “Dad too.”
“I’m sure,” I replied. Calvin leaned back and studied me.
His eyes flicked over my face, my posture, my hair. “You look okay,” he said, almost disappointed. I didn’t answer.
Calvin shoved his hands into his pockets. “So what’s the deal? You really doing the will thing?”
“I already did it,” I said.
Calvin blinked. “What?”
“It’s signed,” I told him. His jaw tightened.
“Bea, come on,” he said, voice dropping into a tone he probably thought sounded caring. “You’re not in your right mind. You’re scared.
That’s normal. But you can’t make decisions like that.”
I let out a breath. “Cal,” I said, “I’ve made decisions under fire.
I’ve made decisions in the middle of storms. I’ve made decisions with other people’s lives in my hands. Don’t talk to me like I’m fragile because paperwork makes you uncomfortable.”
His expression flashed—anger, then control.
“I’m just saying,” he pressed, “Mom and Dad are your family. I’m your family. Fern is—”
Fern’s name came out like an afterthought.
Like a footnote. Fern stepped into view behind me. Calvin’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” he said, “hey, Fern.”
Fern’s face was polite. It always was. “Hi, Cal,” she said.
Calvin shifted his weight. “So you’re… what, staying here now?”
Fern’s hand tightened around the doorframe. “I’m helping,” she said.
Calvin laughed lightly. “Right. Helping.”
The word carried a hook.
“What do you want?” I asked. Calvin’s gaze snapped back to me. “Me?” he said.
“Nothing. I’m just checking in.”
He said it like it was a gift. His shoulders slumped in irritation.
“Fine,” he said. “Mom wanted me to tell you she thinks you’re being unfair. And Dad—Dad says you need to reconsider.
He says you’re letting emotions drive. He wants you to think about legacy.”
I almost laughed. Legacy.
They loved that word when it meant something they could control. “What’s your legacy, Cal?” I asked. He blinked.
“What?”
“What have you built that you’re so sure you’re owed a piece of what I built?” I asked. His face flushed. “I’m not saying I’m owed anything,” he snapped.
“But you’re here,” I said, calm. “In my driveway. In my face.
Asking questions you didn’t bother to ask when I said I needed help.”
Calvin’s nostrils flared. “That was different,” he said. “How?”
He opened his mouth.
No answer came out. Fern shifted behind me. “I should go,” she murmured.
Calvin glanced at her and forced a smile. “No, no, stay,” he said. “We’re family.”
Fern’s polite mask cracked for half a second.
“Are we?” she asked. The question hung between us. Calvin’s smile faltered.
“Of course,” he said, too quickly. Fern didn’t reply. I stepped forward, drawing Calvin’s attention back to me.
“The decision is made,” I said. Calvin’s jaw worked. “You’re really giving her the house?” he asked.
Fern’s breath caught. I didn’t look back. I kept my eyes on Calvin.
His face twisted, disbelief turning into something uglier. “That’s insane,” he said. “Is it?” I asked.
“She can’t handle a house,” he said, and that, right there, was the truth. It wasn’t about fairness. It was about who they believed could hold value.
Fern’s voice was quiet. “I’ve handled a lot,” she said. Calvin waved a hand.
“I’m not saying you haven’t. I’m just—Bea, come on. Think.
Mom and Dad—”
“Mom and Dad said no,” I cut in. Calvin stared at me. “They didn’t say no,” he insisted.
“They said everything except yes,” I replied. Calvin’s mouth tightened. “You’re doing this to punish them,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I’m doing it to honor the only person who didn’t treat my fear like an inconvenience.”
Calvin looked past me again, at Fern. His eyes narrowed.
“You put her up to this?” he asked. Fern flinched like he’d slapped her. I stepped closer to Calvin until he had to look at me.
“If you ever imply that again,” I said, voice low, “you won’t be welcome on this property. Not even as a visitor.”
Calvin’s face shifted. “Bea,” he said, trying to laugh it off.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” I said. “I’m being clear.”
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he exhaled sharply.
“Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.”
He backed down the porch steps. But before he got to his truck, he turned back.
“You know,” he said, voice loud enough for Fern to hear, “Mom’s going to be devastated.”
I didn’t move. “Mom will survive,” I said. He climbed into his truck, started it, and peeled out of my driveway like he needed the sound of leaving to make a point.
Fern stood behind me, trembling. “Stop,” I said, turning to her. “You didn’t do anything.”
Fern’s eyes were wet.
“I hate this,” she said. “I know,” I replied. We stood on the porch in the cooling air, and I realized something.
Calvin hadn’t come to see if I was okay. He’d come to make sure the world stayed arranged the way he was used to. And for the first time, it wasn’t.
4
My treatment schedule didn’t care about family drama. Cancer doesn’t wait for anyone to get emotionally literate. So two days after Calvin’s visit, Fern drove me to the hospital again.
She took the freeway like it was a route she’d memorized, even though she’d only made the drive a handful of times. At the traffic light outside the medical center, she tapped the steering wheel three times. “Nervous?” I asked.
Fern glanced at me. “About you, yes.”
“Fair,” I said. She made a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
Inside, the waiting room smelled like disinfectant and coffee that had been sitting too long. People sat in chairs arranged like an apology. Nobody looked at anyone else.
Everyone stared at screens or magazines or the floor. Fern sat beside me, hands folded, posture too straight. “How are you doing?” the nurse asked when she called my name.
“Fine,” I said automatically. Fern’s hand touched my arm. The nurse smiled at Fern.
“Support person?”
Fern nodded. The word support hung there. Fern looked like she wanted to argue with it.
We went into the infusion room. White walls. Recliners.
IV poles like thin trees. I sat down, rolled up my sleeve. Fern stood beside me, unsure.
“You can sit,” I told her. She pulled up a chair. When the needle went in, I didn’t flinch.
When the medication started, my stomach tightened anyway. Fern watched the drip chamber like she could will it to slow. “I hate that you’re here,” she said quietly.
“In the chair?” I asked. “In this,” she corrected. “In… this whole thing.”
I looked at her.
“You’d rather I do it alone?”
Fern’s eyes flashed. “No.”
“Then let it be what it is,” I said. She swallowed.
“I don’t know how,” she admitted. “You do,” I told her. “You’re doing it right now.”
Fern’s fingers curled around the edge of her chair.
“I’m scared,” she whispered. “Me too,” I said. It was the first time I’d said it out loud.
The words didn’t make the fear bigger. They made it shareable. Fern exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for years.
She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a paperback. “I brought this,” she said. “What is it?” I asked.
“It’s… dumb,” she said. “Fern,” I said, “nothing you bring me is dumb.”
She handed it over. It was a mystery novel, the kind with a lighthouse on the cover.
“I thought we could read,”
