Chapter 3 - The Weight of the Inheritance
Nathan lunged forward, not with anger, but with a desperate panic, snatching the papers out of my fingers before I could read the final page.
“You shouldn't be looking at that,” he choked out, his voice raw. He slammed the metal box shut and twisted the key, his hands shaking so badly he dropped the small key onto the carpet.
I stood up slowly, leaning against the edge of the desk to steady myself. The mild ache in my back had flared into a sharp, persistent cramp, but I ignored it.
“Four reproductive cycles, Nathan?” My voice was dangerously quiet. “That’s what your father calls our daughters? Reproductive cycles?”
Nathan wouldn't look at me. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the remnants of sleep, looking less like an angry patriarch and more like a trapped animal. “It’s just legal boilerplate, Erin. Dad had those trusts drawn up back in the eighties. It was how his father set up the lumber yards in Vermont. It’s just... it’s just how old men protect their assets.”
“That isn't protection, Nathan. That’s a trap,” I said, stepping closer to him. “And you knew about it. Before we tried for a third child, before we talked about a fourth—you knew that every time I got pregnant, your father was holding a financial guillotine over your head.”
“Of course I knew!” he snapped, finally raising his voice, though he kept his glance darting toward the hallway to ensure the girls weren't awake. “You think I wanted that hanging over us? You think it’s easy walking into the yard every morning knowing that the moment Dad decides I haven't produced an heir, he can strip my voting shares and hand them to my cousin Greg? Greg doesn't even know how to price a lumber order!”
“So you let your parents treat me like an incubator?” I asked, my voice trembling with a rage so profound it felt cold. “You let your mother sneer at my daughters every time we walked into their house because you were too cowardly to tell your father to shove his archaic trust fund where the sun doesn't shine?”
“It’s millions of dollars, Erin!” Nathan shouted, his face flushing dark. “It’s Walsh Building Supply! It’s everything I’ve worked for since I was twenty-two years old! It’s how we pay for Ella’s private school, how we afford this house, how we live! You think it’s easy pretending I don't care about having a son when every single family dinner is an interrogation about whether we’re trying again?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “It is easy. If you love your wife and your children, it is the easiest thing in the world to choose them over a pile of lumber and your father’s approval.”
Nathan flinched, the words landing like a physical strike. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could form a sentence, a soft knock sounded at the office door.
We both froze.
Ella was standing in the doorway, wearing her pajamas, her blanket clutched in her arms. Her eyes weren't looking at her father. They were fixed entirely on me.
“Mom,” she said quietly. “My stomach hurts. And... there’s something wet on your slippers.”
May you like
I looked down. A small, dark stain had spread onto the light gray rug beneath my feet.
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