The fork froze halfway to my mouth. My throat closed. I hadn’t heard that name spoken aloud in years, and suddenly it sounded like a ghost had whispered it.
“Helen?” My voice cracked.
“Yes,” he continued gently. “I’m very sorry to inform you… Helen has passed away. And I need you to attend the reading of her will.”
The silence pressed in tighter. My mind raced. Why me? Why now?
“I… I haven’t spoken to Helen in decades,” I blurted. “I don’t understand. Why would you be calling me?”
“I can’t discuss details over the phone,” he replied. “But your presence is required.”
My heart hammered. Every instinct told me to hang up, to protect the life I had built. But curiosity — that insidious, gnawing thing — wrapped its claws around me.
After a long pause, I whispered, “Alright. I’ll come.”
“Good,” Mr. Whitman said softly. “You might be surprised at what Helen left behind.”
The following week, I gripped the steering wheel tightly on my way there. The city traffic blurred, but my mind wasn’t in the present. It was caught between dread and disbelief.
The law office loomed ahead — an old brick building with tall windows and brass handles gleaming like they were polished every morning. I parked at the curb and sat for a long moment, my reflection pale and nervous in the rearview mirror.
“You can do this,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure I believed it.
Inside, the receptionist led me into a conference room. And there they were.
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