“Richard bought something six months before he got sick.”
He placed a document in front of me.
It was the deed to a small house by the lake.
I recognized the address immediately.
Richard and I had spent a weekend there once.
I had been standing on the porch and jokingly said:
“If I could choose any place to grow old, I would choose a place exactly like this.”
He had remembered it.
The house was mine.
Fully paid.
Then the lawyer turned another page.
There was also a trust, not the enormous fortune everyone expected me to fight for, but enough so that I would never again have to fear losing my home or choosing between paying rent or buying food.
Rebecca stared at me.
“So you get money anyway?”
The lawyer looked at her.
“His father’s words were very clear.”
Then he read aloud the last sentence of Richard’s letter.
