My mother died in her west-wing bedroom at ninety.
Family around her.
No last secret.
No hidden account.
No dramatic confession.
She left Ivy her pearl earrings.
Owen my father’s old wristwatch.
To Vanessa she left a handwritten recipe for lemon cake.
Why?
No explanation.
Vanessa cried anyway.
At the funeral dinner, no one wore an apron.
Not intentionally.
Just nobody did.
The house served food.
People ate.
That was enough.
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