“I… I haven’t spoken to Helen in decades,” I said quickly. “I don’t understand. Why are you calling me?”
“I cannot discuss the details over the phone,” he replied. “But your presence is required.”
My heart was pounding. All my instincts screamed at me to hang up, to protect the life I had built for myself. But curiosity, sharp and relentless, tightened its grip.
After a long silence, I murmured, “Very well. I will come.”
“Good,” said Mr. Whitman calmly. “You may be surprised by what Helen left behind.”
The following week, I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ached. Traffic whizzed by, but my mind was elsewhere. It oscillated between apprehension and disbelief. Why had Helen’s lawyer called me, out of everyone else?
The law firm stood in the distance: an old brick building with tall windows and perfectly polished brass handles. I parked and stood still for a moment, listening to the ticking of the engine as it cooled. My reflection in the rearview mirror was pale, as if blurred.
“You can do it,” I whispered, even though I wasn’t convinced.
Upon entering, I was greeted by the smell of polished wood and a faint scent of cologne. The receptionist, smiling politely but without warmth, led me down a carpeted corridor to a conference room.
And they were there.
Lisa noticed me first. Arms crossed, piercing gaze. Emily barely looked up, her thumbs gliding across her phone screen, chewing her gum with a steady rhythm.
Jonathan muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with contempt. I only caught snippets: “unbelievable” and “she”.
The air was heavy, suffocating.
I sat at the other end of the mahogany table, keeping my distance. No greetings. No politeness. No curiosity. I was still the outsider, the missing piece of the puzzle.
A few moments later, the door opened again. Mr. Whitman entered, a leather briefcase under his arm, his glasses reflecting the fluorescent lights. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you all for coming. We are gathered here today to read Helen’s will.”
A deathly silence fell over the room. Even Emily briefly lowered her phone.
Mr. Whitman opened the file and adjusted his glasses. His voice remained calm, but each word resonated like thunder.
“To my stepdaughter, Anna, I bequeath my residence located on Lakeview Drive, valued at approximately three million dollars.”
The room seemed to tilt. For a moment, no one breathed — then chaos erupted.
Lisa jumped up, her chair scraping the floor. “What?! That’s absurd!” she yelled, her face red with anger. “She must have forged it! Impossible!”
Jonathan leaned forward, his fists clenched. “Why would Mom have left you anything? You weren’t even related to her! It’s a scam, for sure.”
Emily slammed her phone on the table so hard it vibrated. “Oh, please! This reeks of manipulation. What have you done, Anna? Did you sneak in and manipulate her mind while no one was looking?”
Their words burned me, but my voice remained silent. My throat was on fire.
Mr. Whitman raised his hand, drawing attention. “Please. Let me finish.”
The silence that followed was heavy, brutal.
“As for Helen’s biological children—Lisa, Emily, and Jonathan—each of you will receive a legacy of four thousand dollars.”
The silence was broken.
“Four thousand?!” Lisa yelled, her voice trembling with fury. “That’s an insult! She spent more than that on a handbag!”
Jonathan slammed his fist on the table, making the glasses rattle. “She lost her mind before she died. That’s the only explanation!”
Emily leaned forward, her eyes blazing. “It’s your fault,” she spat in my face. “She despised you for years. And now, all of a sudden, you get everything? What did you ever do to her, Anna?”
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