“I still want it.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the staircase where Greg had disappeared.
“Because your mother’s soup is inside. The kids love it. I want them to have whatever is left.”
That explanation almost made sense.
“Okay. I’ll tell Greg.”
“No.”
Her answer came too fast.
“Don’t tell Greg.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Just make sure nobody takes it. Please.”
Then she walked away.
The next morning, she called me about the freezer again.
Thursday, she asked again.
Friday morning, again.
Each time, she sounded more anxious.
The children wanted Grandma’s soup.
She didn’t want it wasted.
Mom would have wanted them to keep it.
On Thursday afternoon, I went to Mom’s house.
Greg was upstairs going through her bedroom drawers.
“What are you doing?”
He jumped.
“Nothing.”
He quickly corrected himself.
“Looking for estate documents. Bank statements.”
“In her sock drawer?”
