“What’s this?” I asked, sipping my iced tea.

“My new will,” she said, settling into the wicker rocker beside me. “I had a lawyer in town draw it up. A real one this time.”

I opened it and scanned the pages. It was simple and elegant. It divided her entire estate into two equal trusts: one to fund a local safe house for abused seniors escaping domestic violence, the other to establish a scholarship for certified geriatric nurses.

I looked up, pretending to be wounded. “What about me? I don’t get the beach house?”

She smiled, a warm expression that smoothed the worry from her face. She reached over and placed her hand on mine, squeezing tightly. Her grip was strong now, rooted in love, not fear.

“Claire, my darling,” she said, looking out at the horizon. “You already took the only thing that ever mattered.”