“Your mother was very specific about this item.”
I looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“She stated that the shawl was to be transferred directly to you and that no other family member was to take possession of it.”
Lila rolled her eyes.
“How dramatic.”
The lawyer ignored her.
He asked me to sign a receipt acknowledging that I had received the shawl.
That seemed strange, but grief had left me exhausted. I signed where he pointed, tucked the box beneath my arm, and left the office without arguing.
As I passed Lila, she leaned close enough that only I could hear her.
“You always thought you were her favorite,” she whispered. “Now you know better.”
I kept walking.
I refused to let her see me cry.
But the moment I reached my car, I placed the box on the passenger seat and broke down.
My mother had been gone for less than two weeks.
I missed her voice.
I missed the way she called me on Sunday evenings and asked whether I was eating properly.
I missed how she could tell I was upset from a single word.
The inheritance should not have mattered.
I knew that.
Love was not measured in houses or bank accounts.
But grief makes people fragile, and Lila’s words had reached the part of me already filled with doubt.
