Margot blinked. “The truth about what?”
“I mean I spent thirty years angry at her for not loving me the way she loved you two. But I never asked why. I just took. The money, the timeshare, the attention. I never gave anything back.”
Margot arrived at 9:17. She was forty-two, the youngest of the three by a wide and awkward gap. Her hair was wet, as if she’d just stepped out of the shower, and she wore no makeup. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but not from crying—from lack of sleep. She carried a reusable tote bag with a faded library logo and sat as far from Julian as the table allowed.
The lawyer, a patient man named Mr. Chen who had handled the Morrow family’s affairs since before Eleanor was married, cleared his throat and began.
