He was eighty-six.
Quiet.
Stubborn.
And apparently far wealthier than anyone in our family realized.
Grandpa Arthur never lived like a rich man.
He drove an eleven-year-old Lincoln.
He sharpened his own lawn mower blades.
He once returned a toaster because it cost eight dollars more than the one advertised in the newspaper.
So when his attorney, Rachel Sloan, sat across from me after the funeral and told me he had left me a trust worth approximately twenty million dollars, I thought she had made a mistake.
“Twenty million?”
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