The cold of the funeral still clung to my skin when I sat in the lawyer’s office the next morning.
Marlene and her brothers were already there, arranged like a jury. She crossed her legs and tilted her head at me.
“How generous of you to come,” Marlene said. “When do you plan to leave our father’s house?”
I folded my hands to keep them from trembling.
A small wooden box sat on the desk. No will was visible.
The lawyer placed his glasses on his nose and looked from one of us to the other.
“Russell asked that I follow his instructions in order.”
Marlene gave a soft laugh.
“The serving girl gets a souvenir.”
The lawyer pushed the box toward me.
“He wanted you to receive this first.”
Inside were no keys, no money, no jewelry, only a folded letter and an old photograph.
Marlene snorted.
“There it is. Daddy’s last little joke.”
I picked up the photograph. It showed me at the charity dinner, holding a tray, caught mid-laugh. I did not remember anyone taking it, but the charity logo was faintly stamped in the corner.
The letter was written in Russell’s careful hand. I unfolded it with both hands.
“What does it say?” Marlene demanded.
I kept reading. My eyes blurred.
“What does it say?” she snapped again, reaching across the desk.
The lawyer gently stopped her.
“The letter is private. Your father was clear.”
“Then read the real will.”
He opened a sealed envelope. Marlene’s smile weakened.
The brothers leaned forward. He read in a steady voice, but I could barely focus. I kept staring at the photograph, at the woman who had no idea someone across the room was truly seeing her.
“Skip ahead,” Marlene snapped. “Who gets the house?”
The lawyer turned one page, then another. Her anger began shifting into fear.
“This cannot be right.”
He looked up.
“It is exactly right. Your father reviewed every line, completed a competency evaluation before signing, and expected objections.”
Marlene’s brother touched her arm. She jerked away.
The lawyer’s voice became firmer.
“He knew what each of you was capable of.”
