Lucía hugs you.
Her perfume is soft and floral, the same perfume she wore at Diego’s memorial.
You nearly gag.
“Mom,” she says, pulling back. “You look tired.”
“I slept badly.”
“You worry too much.”
You smile.
“I’m learning not to ignore that.”
For one second, her eyes sharpen.
Then she laughs.
The drive to Blue Ridge Overlook takes nearly two hours. Esteban drives. Lucía sits in the front passenger seat, turning back occasionally to make bright conversation about fall leaves, her workshop, school activities, family holidays. She does not mention the will.
Not at first.
Arturo holds your hand in the back seat.
His palm is damp.
Halfway there, Lucía finally sighs.
“I spoke to a financial planner.”
Of course she did.
You look out the window at the trees passing in streaks of orange.
“About what?”
“You and Dad. The house. The land. Your savings. It’s irresponsible to keep everything scattered.”
Arturo’s fingers tighten around yours.
Lucía continues, “If something happens to you, probate could become a nightmare. You know how courts are. Lawyers drain everything. I’m only trying to protect the family.”
You turn toward her.
“Which family?”
She blinks.
“What?”
“You said protect the family. I wondered which one.”
Esteban glances at you in the rearview mirror.
Lucía laughs lightly.
“Mom, don’t start.”
You say nothing.
She turns back toward the windshield.
The car grows quiet.
