"All right," Ruth said. "Now the other part. Arthur was going to call. You're here instead, so the news is in your mouth. Say it plain."
Lydia's throat hurt. "The house doesn't split three ways. It goes to you. Outright. She wrote that you are the person with whom she made her home. The money in the accounts comes to us. The house does not. There's a letter. Penrose read it to us. This is a copy." She touched the page and withdrew her hand. "She said not to make you move the cups."
Ruth looked at the stationery without taking it up. Her mouth pressed in, not quite a smile, not quite a break. "She told me she would. I argued. I lost, which with your mother was sometimes the same as being loved, and sometimes just losing. I hoped she might have softened it into a life estate, something I could occupy and you could inherit, so that nobody had to stand where you're standing." She breathed out. "She did not soften it. That is like her. She hated a compromise that only looked kind."
"Are you angry?"