Her nieces hated me from the very first introduction. At church, people looked at my worn shoes, then at her pearl earrings, and decided exactly who I was before I'd said a single word to any of them.
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For four years, I lived in her house. I drove her to every appointment, changed every lightbulb she couldn't safely reach herself, made weak, apologetic coffee she always finished anyway, and let her correct my crossword attempts in red pen without complaint.
Somewhere between pill bottles and Sunday pancakes, I genuinely stopped counting what I might eventually receive.
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Then one morning, her chair at breakfast stayed empty.
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After the funeral, her family watched me the way you watch someone you've already decided has been waiting patiently for exactly this outcome. Deborah, the loudest of her nieces, made a point of telling me, at the reception, that she hoped I'd "gotten what I actually came for," her voice pitched just loud enough to carry across the room.
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A week later, her lawyer, Mr. Halloran, called me into his office.
I expected papers. Keys, maybe. Possibly nothing at all, given how the will reading had gone three days earlier — a modest sum, considerably smaller than anyone expected given her actual wealth, most of the estate divided cleanly among her nieces exactly the way she'd apparently intended for years.
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