“I already transferred the house to him,” I said.
Silence.
Then: “You did what?”
“I signed everything this morning.”
“Michael.”
I closed my eyes.
“He should have it.”
“That’s not what I’m reacting to.”
“What are you reacting to?”
“The speed,” she said. “The shock. The fact that you are making massive financial decisions less than twenty-four hours after burying your mother.”
I almost snapped back.
Then I stopped.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
From the outside, I probably sounded unstable.
Maybe I was unstable.
But some truths don’t arrive politely.
Some truths hit you in the face and make every delayed reaction look reckless.
“I’m not done,” I said.
“Michael.”
“I’m not done.”
This time she heard the thing in my voice that I had just heard myself.
Not grief.
Not exactly.
It was something heavier.
A man realizing that his clean hands were not the same as innocent hands.
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