Over the next few days, I buried myself in the bureaucratic tangle of the past. I requested documents, pored over emails, and scheduled meetings. Each piece of paper was a fragment of a larger puzzle, one that had been meticulously crafted to exclude me.
The lawyer’s office became a second home, a place where I could sift through the detritus of decisions made in hushed voices and behind closed doors. The staff there knew me by name now, their smiles polite but distant. I was just another client, another case to be resolved.
« There’s a paper trail, » my uncle had told me, and he was right. But following it was like chasing shadows, each lead promising resolution, only to fade into ambiguity. I found emails discussing the estate, each carefully worded to obfuscate the truth.
It was during one of these sessions, a rainy Tuesday afternoon, that I stumbled upon an email thread between my father and his lawyer. The subject line was innocuous, but the content was anything but.
« Ensure all assets are secured, » my father had written, his words precise and unyielding. The response was equally curt: « Consider it done. »
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
