The Reading of the Will

Your mother left the house to both of you, jointly.

Jointly.

That’s fine.

It is not fine. You haven’t been in that house in nine years.

I sent money every month.

You sent money. I sent myself. Every weekend.

There’s also a letter. She asked that I read it with you both here.

Go ahead.

“Claire. Paul. I know you’re fighting. Stop it.”

That’s her.

“Claire, you were there. I know what that cost you. Paul, you weren’t, and I know what that cost you too.”

She didn’t know anything about what it cost me.

“Paul, I knew. I was your mother. I knew you couldn’t look at me sick.”

Keep going.

“Sell the house. Split it evenly. Then have dinner. Once a month, for one year. That’s the only thing I’m asking.”

She can’t make us do that.

No. She can’t. She also left a reservation. First Friday of next month. It’s prepaid.

She prepaid it?

Of course she did. She knew you’d make me pay.