I could almost hear Grandpa’s snort. “The lawyer is holding copies of everything. If you are reading this after a crisis where your parents again chose appearances over you, Peter has instructions to deliver not only this letter, but the rest of what I’ve prepared.”
I looked up at Peter. He opened the messenger bag again and pulled out a second envelope stamped with a law firm’s logo, along with a small metal key. “Safety deposit box,” he said.
Inside the legal envelope were photocopies: the original college-fund agreement with my name, the later transfer documents with my nineteen-year-old signature, and bank statements showing the money draining away. There was also a will from Grandpa, dated three months before he died.
In it, after a few small gifts to charity, he left everything—his Florida condo, his savings, and what remained of the investments—to me. My parents and Madison were mentioned only once, in a single icy line: “I intentionally make no provision for my son Robert Reynolds, his wife Elaine, or their elder daughter Madison, as they have repeatedly chosen status over family.”
Tucked behind the will was another handwritten note, shorter than the first.
