Margaret was silent for a long time. Outside, a school bus hissed to a stop two blocks away. Children shouted the particular shout of children released from math.
"Forty percent is more than I expected," Margaret said at last. "Sixty is less than you deserve. I accept both numbers because arguing about desert seems to be how we got here."
Helen nodded. Something in her shoulders lowered a fraction. "There's one more thing."
"Yes?"
"I want you to tell Diane yourself. Not through me. Not through a lawyer. Sit with my daughter and answer her questions until she runs out of them or until she asks you to leave. She deserves a face and a voice, not a highlighted line on a will."
Margaret closed her eyes. "Will she hate me?"
"Yes," Helen said. "And then, if you're lucky and she's brave, she will hate the situation more than she hates you. That is the best any of us can hope for."
The meeting between Diane and Margaret happened on a Saturday in early April, in Helen's living room, with Helen present and silent unless spoken to. Diane arrived in the charcoal blouse she had worn the day of the will reading, as if clothing could close a circle. Margaret arrived early and sat on the sofa with her hands visible, empty, unthreatening.