When the attorney invited me to his office, I prepared myself for a brief discussion and perhaps a few sentimental items. I sat across from him, hands folded, thinking of my father with a mixture of affection and longing. It had been a tender, emotional time since he had passed peacefully, and I carried his memory carefully with me.
The attorney adjusted his glasses and unfolded a neatly typed document.
For a moment I simply nodded, expecting him to continue with some formal phrasing. Then the words caught up with me.
The house?
His house?
I blinked in surprise. That familiar little home—the one I had grown up in—was still standing, of course, but I had assumed it would someday be sold or left to settle expenses. It had been years since I last spent time there, and in my mind it remained exactly as it had been during my childhood: charming, worn around the edges, and full of memories but certainly not valuable in any traditional sense.
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