“When exactly do you plan on moving out of our father’s house?”
My hands wanted to shake.
I folded them in my lap.
On the attorney’s desk sat a wooden box.
No stacks of money.
No property documents.
No obvious will.
Just a box.
The attorney adjusted his glasses.
“Russell was very specific about the order in which his instructions were to be carried out.”
Marlene looked at the box.
Then at me.
“The serving girl gets a souvenir.”
I felt the insult.
But I was too tired to react.
The attorney pushed the box toward me.
“Russell wanted Elena to receive this first.”
I opened it.
No jewelry.
No keys.
No cash.
Inside were two things.
A folded letter.
And an old photograph.
I lifted the photograph first.
It showed a crowded ballroom.
My breath caught.
The charity gala.
There I was.
Thirty-two years old.
Holding a tray of champagne.
