Chapter 1 - The Memorial AltarTristan's knees hit the floor.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Amber stood frozen near the doorway, clutching the baby against her chest.
I remained beside the memorial altar, holding the incense between my fingers.
The room smelled of jasmine, sandalwood, and the black coffee Rosemary had loved every morning.
Tristan stared at his mother's photograph.
“No.”
His voice was barely audible.
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“One hundred days ago.”
His face drained of color.
“You said she was sick.”
“She was.”
“You said she was recovering.”
“She was never going to recover.”
He shook his head.
“You should have told me.”
I almost laughed.
“I tried.”
Amber looked between us.
“What is happening?”
Tristan didn't answer her.
His eyes remained fixed on his mother's photograph.
“You were supposed to take care of her.”
“I did.”
“You were supposed to call me.”
“I called you.”
“How many times?”
“Forty-seven.”
He looked at me.
“Forty-seven?”
“Forty-seven calls.”
I reached into my bag and placed my old phone on the table.
The call history was still there.
Forty-seven unanswered calls.
Seventeen messages.
Three emails.
Two letters sent by certified mail.
Every attempt had received either silence or an automated response.
Amber slowly lowered herself onto the sofa.
“Tristan…”
He finally turned toward her.
“Not now.”
She looked offended.
“You brought me here.”
“I didn't know she was dead.”
“And I didn't know we were coming to a funeral.”
“This isn't a funeral.”
I corrected her.
“It is a memorial.”
Amber's expression hardened.
“Well, whatever it is, I have a baby who needs to eat.”
I looked at her.
“There is a kitchen.”
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Tristan walked toward the altar.
He touched his mother's photograph.
His fingers trembled.
“She was wearing this dress at our wedding.”
“Yes.”
“You remember?”
“I remember everything.”
His eyes filled with tears.
For the first time since he arrived at the airport, he looked less like the confident businessman who had publicly demanded a divorce.
He looked like someone's son.
Then his gaze fell upon a thick envelope beside the photograph.
His name was written across it.
TRISTAN HAYES
He picked it up.
“What is this?”
“Your mother's final letter.”
He stared at me.
“Why do you have it?”
“Because she gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Two weeks before she died.”
His hands tightened around the envelope.
“Why didn't she give it to me?”
I answered quietly.
“She tried.”
Silence.
Then I added:
“She asked me to make sure you received it only after you came home.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because she knew you wouldn't come home for her.”
His face crumpled.
I walked toward the kitchen.
“There's dinner.”
He didn't move.
“What?”
“Your mother's favorite meal.”
I looked over my shoulder.
“Eat before it gets cold.”
Tristan stared at the plate.
Amber stood abruptly.
“This is insane.”
I turned toward her.
“No.”
I pointed toward the envelope.
“This is the part where everything becomes clear.”
Tristan opened it.
His eyes moved across the first page.
Then he stopped.
“What is this?”
I didn't answer.
He read the next line.
His breathing changed.
“No.”
I remained silent.
He looked at me.
“Shelby…”
“Yes?”
“Where is the attorney?”
“He'll be here at six.”
“Why?”
I looked at Rosemary's photograph.
“Because your mother left a will.”
Tristan swallowed.
“And you're named in it?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
His relief was immediate.
Then I finished:
May you like
“Neither are you.”
His face went completely white.
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