I knelt beside an old metal file cabinet and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside was a thick manila envelope, sealed years ago with tape that had begun to yellow. My mother’s careful handwriting stretched across the front.
REBECCA. BEACH HOUSE DOCUMENTS. IMPORTANT.
The word important had been underlined three times.
I carried the envelope back to my desk and opened it slowly. Inside were neatly arranged documents, including the trust my mother created shortly before she passed and the official deed to the beach house in Cape Ann, Massachusetts.
My chest tightened as I traced her signature with my finger.
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