She was protecting you even then, even from her deathbed, arranging things so that one day, when the danger had passed, what was rightfully yours would finally come to you.

Think of the faith that took, Evelyn.

She built a structure she would never see completed, planted a tree whose shade she knew she would never sit in.

She was dying, and she spent some of her last strength arranging a future she would have no part in, trusting that the trust would mature and the danger would fade and I would keep my word and find you, none of which she would live to witness.

That is not the act of a desperate woman grasping at the end.