*After my husband’s funeral, my son drove me to a remote road and said…

But they had other plans. The next morning, sunlight spilled through the lace curtains Richard and I had picked out together thirty years ago. I made coffee the simple kind Richard liked, not the imported blend Darren had brought from Boston and waited at the kitchen table.

They came downstairs, dressed sharply. Darren in a blazer he didn’t bother to remove Samantha in a silk blouse and perfectly curled hair. They looked like they were heading to a business meeting, not sitting down to remember their father.

Mom, Darren began, placing his coffee mug down with that same practice precision I’d seen in his father. We’ve been talking. Samantha glanced at him, then at me.

We think it’s time to start settling things. The estate. The business.

The house. I blinked, unsure I’d heard right. Settling.

It’s practical, Darren said. You can’t run the orchard alone. And the house it’s big mom.

Too much for someone your age. My age? The words sat heavy in the room. I had pruned those trees beside Richard through blizzards and heat waves.

I had handled payroll when we couldn’t afford an assistant, baked pies for fundraisers, driven tractors, delivered crates to food banks. We want you to be comfortable, Samantha added, her voice smooth like a sales pitch. There’s a wonderful retirement community two hours south.

Sunnyvale Estates. Activities, friends your age. I stood to clear the breakfast plates, needing motion to hide my shushing hands.

Then Darren pulled out a folder. Dad spoke to me about this last year, he said, sliding a set of documents toward me, he wanted Melissa and me to take over. I looked at the paper.

It was printed on Darren’s corporate letterhead. Richard’s signature steady, too perfect looked off. He hadn’t written that clearly in months, not since the morphing.

This isn’t from our family lawyer, I said. He was lucid when he signed it, Darren insisted. He wanted this, Samantha said quickly.

A fresh start. There’s a developer interested. Seven million for the land? We’d be set.

You’d be cared for. A developer. They wanted to sell the orchard.

Level it. Replace a lifetime of harvests and sustainability and giving back with concrete and cul-de-sacs. You’re talking about selling your father’s life’s work, I said quietly…