He hadn’t been kind, not really. Sharp-tongued, impatient. But he had been hers, the only adult who took her in after the accident took her own parents. And in his own twisted way, he’d cared. That counted for something, didn’t it?
His son, Michael, had visited once. Showed up unannounced in a crisp shirt and expensive shoes, stood at the foot of the hospital bed, and asked her, not the man who raised him, what the inheritance looked like. She’d told him to leave. Michael hadn’t come to the funeral.