I smiled.
“Thanks, Dad. I think I need to be home for a while.”
Upstairs, my old bedroom looked exactly the same.
Twin bed.
Faded quilt.
One Columbia graduation photo pinned to the wall.
Down the hallway, Chloe had forty-seven framed memories.
Prom.
Cheerleading.
Sorority formal.
Engagement party.
I locked my door and called James Whitfield, Nathan’s attorney.
Voicemail.
“James, it’s Fay. I need to see you Monday. It’s urgent.”
Then I sat on the edge of my childhood bed and played the recording through my earbuds.
Every word was clear.
My mother’s voice.
My father’s voice.
My sister’s voice.
All calm.
All practical.
All talking about how to erase me.
I did not sleep.
The next morning, there was a man in the living room.
Silver hair.
Wire-rim glasses.
Soft cardigan.
Safe smile.
Patricia introduced him over coffee.
I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5M and six Manhattan lofts.
