Everything about them was the opposite of what Genevieve had built.
Dad kept talking.
The sale included the stores, inventory, operating assets, and related business interests.
My parents would be financially secure for the rest of their lives.
Asher would receive a generous payout and a consulting contract to help with the transition.
“We’re finally free,” he said.
That word stayed with me.
Free.
Free from what?
The employees who had worked for us for decades?
The growers who had trusted our orders?
The customers who still called some store managers by first name?
The business Genevieve had built from soil and stubbornness?
I looked around the table and realized they were celebrating.
Dad saw my expression.
His smile tightened.
“I know this is difficult for you, Willow.”
He walked around the table and rested a hand on my shoulder.
“You’re the sentimental one.”
I moved slightly under his hand.
“We haven’t forgotten you.”
He placed a large manila envelope on the table and pushed it toward me.
It stopped beside my wineglass.
“What is this?”
Mom folded her hands.
“It’s a consolation prize, sweetie.”
Asher laughed into his glass.
Dad gave him a warning look, but Asher was enjoying himself too much to stop.
“It’s Great-Grandma’s old greenhouse,” he said. “The original one.”
I stared at him.
“The greenhouse?”
“The lot’s too small for Terillux to care about,” he said. “And honestly, the place is falling apart. Dad thought you’d appreciate the history.”
The original greenhouse sat on a forgotten half acre at the edge of town.
Genevieve had started there before Whitmore Gardens became anything anyone outside our family had heard of.
The building had not been used in decades.
Its glass was clouded.
Much of its wood had rotted.
The drive was almost invisible beneath weeds.
While my parents and brother walked away from twenty-three stores with money and contracts, they were handing me a ruin.
Worse, they thought it suited me.
That was what hurt.
The greenhouse was not a gift in their minds.
It was a joke wrapped in sentiment.
A physical representation of what they believed my contribution to the business was worth.
I looked at Mom.
She gave me a small, encouraging smile.
I looked at Dad.
He seemed to be waiting for gratitude.
Then I looked at Asher.
He was still amused.
I did not argue.
I picked up the envelope.
My chair scraped against the floor as I stood.
“Willow,” Dad said.
I walked out.
I did not trust myself to speak without saying something I could never take back.
Outside, cold November air hit my face.
I got into my truck and drove.
I did not consciously decide to go to the greenhouse.
I simply ended up there.
My headlights swept across the structure.
It looked skeletal in the dark.
Weeds crowded the drive. Several panes of glass were cracked or missing. The roofline sagged slightly at one end.
I turned off the engine and sat behind the wheel.
The smell of Mom’s dinner still clung faintly to my coat.
For what felt like hours, I stared at the greenhouse.