I didn’t answer. I stood there with my keys still in my hand, my heart beating too loudly in my ears, as if my body was trying to warn me.
The lawyer opened a leather folder and adjusted his glasses. He introduced himself, but his name slid right past me. All I could see was the folder, thick and official looking, resting on his knee like a verdict.He said he was there to read the will. He didn’t ask me to sit down. No one did.
I stayed where I was, near the door, as if my body already knew I might need to leave quickly.
He began to read. His voice was calm, measured, professional, the kind of voice that never breaks, even when lives do.
“The house,” he said, “will go to Ryan.”I felt something tilt inside me, like the floor had shifted a few inches to the left.
