I didn’t think grief could have a schedule, but it did. It showed up the moment the attorney cleared his throat in that quiet office in Helena, the kind with leather chairs that squeak when you shift your weight and framed mountain prints meant to look calming but only remind you how small you are.
“The family residence and all associated assets will go to your daughter, Sophia Reynolds Blackwell.”
Sophia squeezed her husband Nathan’s hand like she’d just won the lottery. I kept my face still, trained into blankness by forty-two years of marriage to Frank Reynolds, a man who’d built an accounting empire on discretion and taught me how to swallow emotion and smile anyway.
The Helena mansion—five bedrooms, chef’s kitchen, the kind of place featured in Montana Living magazine—would be hers. The investment portfolio. The Mercedes.
Everything we’d built together, gone to our only child in one clean stroke.
Then the attorney, a thin man named Caldwell with wire-rimmed glasses, looked directly at me.
“And to my wife, Abigail Reynolds, I leave my recently acquired property in Montana near Glacier National Park.”
The silence that followed felt thick enough to cut. Sophia blinked rapidly, like she’d misheard. Nathan’s mouth twitched, caught somewhere between a smile and something that looked dangerously close to pity.
Nobody asked if I was okay, because nobody needed to. A “property in Montana” sounded like the consolation prize you gave someone to keep them quiet, to make the will look fair when everyone knew it wasn’t.
“There’s also this,” Caldwell said, sliding a sealed envelope across his desk toward me. “Mr.
Reynolds specified this was to be given to you privately, but given the circumstances…” He glanced at Sophia, then back to me. “It’s your choice when you open it.”
I took the envelope with hands that didn’t quite feel like mine anymore. It was cream-colored, expensive paper, with my name written in Frank’s careful accountant’s script.
I slipped it into my purse before Sophia could ask what it said.
Outside the office, the September wind carried the first bite of autumn. Nathan helped Sophia into their Range Rover while I stood by my modest sedan—the car Frank had insisted I keep even after he bought Sophia her first luxury vehicle.
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