Chapter 2
I stepped out and quietly closed the door behind me.
At the end of the hallway, Shiloh's laughter drifted over, punctuated by Dad's low cough.
Shiloh had been living with us for two months.
By the second week, she stopped saying she was staying for a bit and started calling it "our place."
"We should get a new fridge. Our water heater's not great," she'd say.
Dad never corrected her. He even went along with it. "Do whatever you think."
The new fridge arrived. It was a fancy door model, costing 5 thousand dollars. The water heater got swapped out too.
Her clothes went from one box to three wardrobes. Dad had the wardrobes bought from the furniture store and set up in the master bedroom.
That was right. Shiloh was living in the master bedroom now.
Dad moved from his study into the small guest room next to the master bedroom, saying, "The master bedroom's bigger, so Shiloh will be more comfortable."
Mom's room was at the other end of the hallway. It had never been touched.
One afternoon, I got home early. As I was taking off my shoes in the entryway, I heard something from the living room.
Shiloh was on the phone. Her voice was quiet, but there was no door between the living room and the entryway.
"It won't be long. The doctor said, at most, six months," Shiloh said.
Jude paused. Then he continued, "Miriam, are you sure you want me to share what I found over the phone?"
After hanging up, she turned and saw me standing by the shoe cabinet.
She froze for a second and smiled. "Celeste, you're home early today? Let me slice some fruit for you."
Her smile was practiced. But there was nothing in her eyes.
I turned and went to my mom's room. "Mom, there's something off about that woman.
"I heard her on the phone, saying, 'What belongs to me isn't going anywhere.'"
Mom was sitting by the window, knitting a scarf. Most of the gray yarn was already woven in.
"I know," she said.
Same old answer.
"What do you know?" I pressed.
She looked up at me. Her eyes were impossible to read, not cold, not angry, not even sad or resentful.
It was something left behind after thirty-five years of holding on.
"Whatever your dad wants to do, we can't stop him. But this family won't fall apart," Mom replied. "Trust me."
She lowered her head and kept knitting.
In November, Dad's health took a sudden turn for the worse.
He was hospitalized and started chemotherapy. He got so thin that he was a shadow of his former self.
Every day, it was always Shiloh, not my mom, keeping vigil by his bedside.
Shiloh peeled fruit, gave him his meds, cleaned him up. She was more devoted than any real relative. The nurses were convinced she was his actual family.
One day, I bumped into the attending doctor in the hallway.
The doctor said, "Ms. Turner, I need to let you know. Your father signed an authorization, putting Ms. West in charge of all his medical decisions.
"She's the one who gets to decide what meds he gets and if he goes to the ICU."
"Shouldn't that be signed by a family member?" I asked.
"Ms. West showed us a note your dad wrote himself, and we checked the signature. It's legit," the doctor replied.
I stormed into the hospital room.
Dad was lying in bed, a breathing mask covering his face, his eyes closed. Shiloh was sitting nearby, scrolling through her phone.
"What gives you the right to sign that medical authorization?" I demanded.
Shiloh put her phone down and looked at me, her voice flat. "Your dad told me to. He said I'm the only one here who actually cares about him."
Her tone was so flat, it sent a chill down my spine.
*****
At the end of December, Declan passed away. He was sixty-one when he died.
It rained on the day of the funeral. A lot of people showed up, including relatives, friends, and colleagues.
Mom stood at the very front in a black coat, not shedding a single tear the whole time.
Shiloh was in the second row, dressed in a black dress with pearl earrings, crying harder than anyone else.
My aunt, Noelle, stood nearby, sighing and whispering to the person next to her, "Shiloh's grief is real."
The final segment of the funeral ceremony had ended. And the staff began clearing the hall.
At that moment, Oscar walked over and stopped at the entrance, holding a document envelope in his hands.
"Dear family members, Mr. Turner left a will," he announced. "Please proceed to the conference room next door."
All eyes turned to him at once.
The conference room was small, with a long table and about a dozen folding chairs. The lighting was bleak.
Mom sat all the way to the left, next to the wall. Shiloh was all the way to the right, by the window.
A line of relatives sat between them.
Oscar opened the envelope, took out the document, and cleared his throat. "I will now proceed to read the last will and testament of Mr. Turner.
"This will was executed on September 15, 2024, by Mr. Turner, who was of sound mind and acting of his own volition."
The whole room went quiet.
Oscar continued, "First clause: The apartment in Riverside Garden goes to his daughter, Celeste Turner."
Alright.
Oscar: "Second clause: Savings and investments, totaling 1.1 million dollars, also go to his daughter, Celeste Turner."
Everyone finally breathed easy.