I had thanked them and declined.
I had retreated into my grief because being around other people made Margaret’s absence feel more obvious. I believed solitude was protecting me.
Instead, it had made me vulnerable.
For the first time that morning, I felt genuine fear.
Not because I believed Michael intended to physically harm me, but because I no longer understood what he was capable of doing. The son I loved had allowed desperation and entitlement to overtake his judgment.
Then, beneath the fear, something else began to rise.
Defiance.
A small but stubborn spark of resistance.
“I’m not signing anything,” I said.
Michael’s smile faded.
“You can sit out there for two weeks, a month, or longer. I don’t care. I’m not giving you this land.”
Anger flashed across his face. His shoulders tightened, and his hands curled at his sides.
“You don’t have a choice.”
