The rage that rose in me then was something primal, something I hadn’t felt since I watched a fox try to steal into our chicken coop when the children were small. I’d chased it off with a broom and the kind of fury that comes from protecting what’s yours.
“He was lucid,” Brandon insisted. “He wanted us to have a fresh start with the business. There’s a developer interested in the land.”
“Developer for a luxury housing community,” Melissa explained, her eyes bright with the prospect of money. “They’ll pay seven million. Mom, we can all start fresh.”
Fresh—as if the life Nicholas and I had built was something stale, something to be discarded. As if the legacy of Canton Family Orchards, our sustainable farming practices, our refusal to sell to the big grocery chains that would squeeze our workers, our annual donation of ten percent of our crop to the local food banks, was nothing compared to the prospect of cookie-cutter homes for wealthy weekenders from Philadelphia.
“Your father would never sell this land for development,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “And I didn’t sign anything.”
“You don’t need to,” Brandon explained with practiced patience. “The business was in Dad’s name. The house, too. Pennsylvania isn’t a community property state.”
I knew then that they had planned this—not just after Nicholas fell ill, but perhaps before. How long had my son been waiting for his father to die so he could liquidate our life’s work? How many times had Melissa called, not to check on Nicholas’s health, but to make sure their plan was still in motion?
“I need time,” I said, standing up. “I’m going to bed. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”
