Fresh, as if the life Nicholas and I had built were stale, something to be thrown away. As if the legacy of Canton Family Orchards, our sustainable farming practices, our refusal to sell to large supermarket chains that would exploit our workers, our annual donation of ten percent of our harvest to local food banks, were nothing compared to the prospect of identical homes for wealthy weekenders from Philadelphia.
“Your father would never have sold this land for development,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt. “And I didn’t sign anything.”
“There’s no need,” Brandon explained with expert patience. “The business was in Dad’s name. The house, too. Pennsylvania doesn’t have community property.”
I realized then that they had planned everything, not only after Nicholas fell ill, but perhaps even before. How long had my son been waiting for his father’s death so he could finish his life’s work? How many times had Melissa called, not to inquire about Nicholas’s health, but to make sure their plan was still in place?
“I need time,” I said, getting up. “I’m going to bed. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
But there would have been no discussion.
As I lay awake in the bed I’d shared with Nicholas, staring at the ceiling and listening to the familiar creaks of our old farmhouse, my children were making final preparations. Morning came with the smell of coffee, the expensive kind Brandon had brought from Boston because the local supermarket’s was “undrinkable.” I dressed slowly, my joints stiff from pain, age, and the cold knowledge of what my children had become.
