“Yes,” the lawyer replied. “Very prudent.”
When I arrived at his office, he handed me a sealed envelope with my name written in my father’s impeccable handwriting. Inside was a letter from my father, written several months before his death. He explained that he didn’t want anyone, including me, to be pressured or expected while he was alive. He wanted the will to be revealed only when everything was clear, free from outside influence and manipulation.
He left me the house he grew up in, the savings he quietly accumulated despite claiming he wasn’t rich, and the collection of handwritten journals he kept throughout his life. He wrote that he wanted me to have what he considered “roots”: pieces of myself to cling to when the world seemed uncertain.
She ended the letter with these words: “There is a strength within you that you haven’t yet discovered. Use this life well, my love. Use it as I know you can.”
I cried in that office, not because of the money or the house, but because the man who always loved me the most found a way to take care of me even after his death.
Word of the will spread like wildfire: small towns have a way of spreading information effortlessly. And Max eventually learned just that.
He showed up at my place two days later. He had a tense, almost panicked look on his face.
“You didn’t tell me there was more,” he stammered.
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