“It’s okay. Technically I’m not going through anything yet. I’m just realizing that maybe my relationship isn’t as great as I thought it was. It lacks something I didn’t even realize I needed.” She let out a heavy sigh. “It just sucks, we’ve been together for years. We should be moving forward, not backward. I hate that I’ve wasted all this time.”
“Even if it ends, it’s not a waste of time to have loved someone.” My words, warm and soothing, brought moisture to Ellery’s eyes, but she didn’t cry. She just smiled.
“You’re only saying thatnowbecause, well. All is right. But I’m nearly thirty. I wanted to get married and have kids of my own. Grant’s not there, and I don’t think he’ll ever be there.”
“Sounds like you already know what to do.” I arched a brow.
“Yeah, well.Anyway, let’s get these boxes in your car.” She said, swiftly changing the subject and leaving the office.
Calum
The clock in the waiting room ticked by with each painful second. The occasional rustle of a page turning or a throat clearing would break up the silence.
I sat in a chair beside Connor, my fingers tapping against the arm of the chair to the rhythm of the first song Gramps ever taught me to play on the guitar: Blackbird by Paul McCartney.
“Could you stop doing that?” My father ground out, leaning around both my mom and sister to scowl at me.
“Michael, leave him be. He’s fine.” My mom frowned.
“He fidgets more than a two-year-old.”
Mom let out a sigh, closing her eyes as if praying for patience, but otherwise didn’t respond. When she opened them, she leveled my father with a look that had him leaning back in his chair and putting his nose back in his own business.
I continued tapping my fingers, and this time Connor joined in—her manicured nails tapping out the same beat as she hummed along. Our father’s jaw clenched, but he kept silent.
The receptionist’s phone rang, silencing us as she picked it up. She listened for a moment before hanging up. She stood, walking around the length of her desk, heels clicking against the hardwood.
“Mr. Willowby will see you now,” she said. She led the way to a conference room, directing us to the far side of it. Four sealed bottles of water were placed in front of the four chairs.
We sat, and a moment later, Mr. Willowby walked briskly into the room carrying a leather folder. He sat down across from us and adjusted his silver wired glasses before peering at us with a solemn smile.
“Good morning. Thank you all for coming together so quickly. Mr. Murphy discussed in great detail what he wanted for his estate. Now, typically how these things go is that I’ll read the will out loud, and at the end of it you will have the opportunity to ask questions.”
We nodded solemnly, and Mr. Willowby cleared his throat, his eyes going to my mother. “Maeve. You’re aware that your father appointed you as his Executor?”
“I am.” Mom said, as my father’s hand found its way to her knee to quietly comfort her.
“He ensured his funeral expenses were covered and arranged before his death, so you will not have to do that. However, there are some tasks he’s left you with.” Mom nodded, and I let out a breath—the ache of missing him growing acutely more painful the more we talked about it.
Between finding out about Asher, and everything happening between Harper and me, I hadn’t really given myself time toprocessthe fact that he was gone. Gramps was more of a father to me than my own dad. He’d been the first to show me that men can be tender and soft.
But he was gone now, and the man who was my actual father couldn’t stand to look at me anymore than I could stand to look at him. He’d failed me throughout my entire childhood, well into my teen years, and even now.
And yet…he was there for my mother, a strong pillar of support for her to lean on, and my sister, too. Just not me.
I gripped the arms of the chair tightly, trying to regulate my anger and pain. It was a bad time to process this shit right now, sitting in the middle of a conference room with my father two seats over.
Closing my eyes brought Harper and Asher’s faces to mind, and felt the tension slowly slipping from my extremities.
Mr. Willowby began reading the will, and my eyes opened, focusing on the elderly lawyer.
“This is the Last Will and Testament of me, Frank David Murphy, of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. I hereby cancel any previous wills I have made of every kind and nature.
“I appoint Maeve Siobhan Jacobs, to look after my estate and I hereinafter refer to her as “my Executor”. The executor is to pay all taxes and any remaining debt post-mortem from my estate. My house at 56 Victoria, Lunenburg Ontario is to be left to my granddaughter, Connor Mae Jacobs, along with the Bechstein piano. My music books, my album collection, and my instruments—exempting the Bechstein and Steinway pianos—are to be left to my grandson, Calum Michael Jacobs. My remaining estate is to be divided and left to my daughter, Maeve Jacobs, my granddaughter, Connor Mae Jacobs, and my great-grandson, Asher Morrison, to be held in trust of Calum Michael Jacobs until he is of age. I also leave the Steinway piano to Asher Morrison.”
My mother and Connor both gasped, and my father’s brows drew together in confusion. I swallowed against the lump of emotion clogging my throat, but it didn’t dislodge it.
“How—“ I started, but was swiftly interrupted.
