She wore pearls and soft pink lipstick, her blonde hair swept into a bun that made her look younger.
When the lawyer began reading the will, she kept dabbing her eyes with a tissue she hadn’t used until someone else looked her way.
She kissed my cheek.
When he finished and asked if there were any questions, I stood.
“I’d like to say something.”
The room quieted, and I met my aunt’s eyes. “You didn’t lose a sister when my mother died. You lost control.”
A cousin at the far end of the table let out a small, stunned laugh. “Sammie… What did you do?”
The lawyer cleared his throat. “For the record, Michael preserved correspondence related to an attempted custody action.”
“Sammie… What did you do?”
“Clover, what are you —”
“I know about the letters and the threats. And the lawyers. You tried to take me from the only parent I had left.”
“But—”
“Michael didn’t owe me anything,” I continued. “But he gave me everything. He wasn’t given the right to be my dad — he earned it. I don’t understand why you’re here. Did you think my father would have left something for you? He left the truth.”
Aunt Sammie looked away.
“Did you think my father would have left something for you?”
That night, I opened the box labeled “Clover’s Art Projects” and pulled out the macaroni bracelet I made in second grade. The string was frayed, the glue brittle, but the flecks of yellow paint still clung to the edges.
I ran my finger over the beads, remembering how proud Michael had looked when I gave it to him. He’d worn it all day — even to the grocery store — acting like it was made of real gold.
