The room felt like a pressure cooker ready to burst as I stared at Gaby, her words still ringing in my ears.
I took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm. “Gaby, that fund is not ours to touch. It’s for my daughters’ future.”
“So that’s it? Your dead wife’s wishes matter more than your living family?”
“Don’t you dare speak about Edith that way? This discussion ends now. That money is not up for debate. Period.”
Gaby’s face flushed with anger. “You’re impossible! How can you be so stubborn?”
My jaw tightened, muscles twitching as I fought to maintain control. I barely recognized the woman standing before me, so different from the one I thought I’d married.
A plan formed in my mind…
I stood in our garage workshop, Edith’s old recipe box trembling in my hands. The scent of her favorite gardenia perfume still clung to the index cards, transporting me back to chemotherapy days when she’d whisper, “Promise me they’ll always know their worth.” Beneath the buttermilk pancake recipe lay her looping handwriting: “For our girls’ tomorrows – ED” with our attorney’s contact info.
The garage door creaked open. “Dad?” My eldest, Lily, hovered in the doorway clutching her college acceptance letter. “Is it true? About the trust fund?”
My heart cracked at the warring hope and guilt in her eyes. “Your mother wanted you to soar without financial chains,” I said, guiding her to Edith’s potting bench turned worktable. “See this?” I traced the carved initials from Edith’s childhood. “Legacy isn’t just money. It’s showing up, even when—”
