Helen's mouth opened on a habit of trust that had outlived the man who taught it to her.
"I thought she was his nurse."
The sentence hung between them like a coat left on a chair — still warm with the shape of the person who had worn it, already wrong for the room.
Diane sat down hard on the edge of the sofa. The manila folder crackled when Helen shifted it. Outside, a neighbor's lawnmower started and stopped, the suburban punctuation of a life that continued without consulting anyone in this wood-paneled silence. On the coffee table, the will lay open to the page the lawyer had marked with a yellow tab. Helen could still see the highlight across the property line: House at 214 Maple Avenue, Oakridge, to Margaret Ellison, free and clear.
"Nurse," Diane repeated. The word tasted like something that had spoiled in a closed cupboard. "Dad's hospice nurse? The woman who came three times a week for the last eight months?"
"She was kind," Helen said. Her voice had gone thin. "She taught me how to turn him without hurting his hip. She brought those little lemon candies he liked. She sat with him when I went to the grocery store. I gave her a Christmas card. I tipped her at New Year's."
Diane pressed her fingertips to her temples. "Mom. He left her the house."