Cynthia didn’t even look up. She just kept muttering, tossing bits of herbs onto the glowing tip of her incense.
“I’m cleansing the air. Raymond deserves a peaceful rest, not all this screeching and backstabbing.”
I snorted. They both whipped their heads toward me.
“Actually,” I said, scratching my head like I’d just remembered something, “I invited her. She’s family, too. Right?”
Cynthia grinned at me. “Oh, that’s right, honey. I’m still family.”
Cynthia flicked a bit of ash onto the tray and shrugged. “Why not? Maybe I want to make sure my son-in-law’s memory stays clean. Lord knows he did more for me than you ever did.”
“Oh, please, Mom! You always take everyone else’s side!”
Cynthia snapped her fingers, and Chloe flinched.
“Don’t start with me, sweetheart. I was on your side for years. And what did you do when Raymond was sick? You twisted things to your advantage.”
Cynthia laughed.
“Yeah, you took care of him, all right. I’ve still got that letter he gave me, Lydia. The one where he begged me to hold onto his original will because he didn’t trust you. He knew you’d pull something. He just didn’t know how low you’d go.”
My breath caught. I hadn’t seen that letter yet, not really.
Cynthia reached into her pocket, pulled out an old, creased envelope, and waved it like a flag.
“You want to test me, baby girl? Take me to court. I’ll stand up there and tell them everything — how you shoved that new will under his nose when he could barely hold a pen.”
“Mama,” Chloe whined, “this is so unfair! Where are we supposed to go?”
Cynthia leaned back in her chair, calm as ever.
“You’ve got your father’s old place upstate, remember? The one you always brag about? It needs a good coat of paint, but it’s got plenty of rooms for your… family bonding. I hear the plumbing still works.”
Lydia’s nostrils flared. I just shrugged.
“You always said we should stick together as a family. So here we are. Sticking.”
Cynthia cackled.
***
A few hours later, after doors slammed and boxes clattered down the front steps, the house fell quiet. Cynthia and I sat at the table, two mugs between us. She raised her cup to me.
“To Raymond. And to strong girls who don’t let witches win.”
I laughed — the first real laugh in weeks.
“And don’t worry, honey. We’ll keep this place warm. Now you can finally focus on that bookstore café of yours. In peace.”
I looked out the window — the yard looked just the way it did when Dad was still here. And now I knew it would stay that way. Maybe even better. With Cynthia on my side.
I asked her to stay there, to look after the house while I finally made my dream real.
I glanced up at the sky and smiled. Dad would’ve been proud of me.
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