The day the lawyer called, my world felt like a hollow drum. My mother was gone. After the funeral, a blur of polite condolences and forced smiles, came the reading of the will. It was less a will, more a series of disappointments etched onto thick paper. My older siblings received substantial trusts, the family home, a vintage car my father had doted on. Gifts, legacies, proof they were loved.
Then it was my turn. My heart hammered, a mix of hope and dread. What would she leave me? A piece of jewelry? A letter? Something that said, “I loved you too, despite everything?”
The lawyer cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles. “And for you,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth, “your mother left… this.” He pushed a plain, cream-colored envelope across the polished mahogany table. No dramatic reveal, no explanation. Just a small, unassuming envelope. That was it.
