At the funeral, his three children stood across from me in matching black coats, like a wall. People offered condolences, then drifted toward them. I stood alone beside the casket and cried because I had loved him, and because nobody there believed that I had.
After the final guest left, the lawyer touched my elbow.
“Elena,” he said, “Russell left instructions.”
They had to be delivered face-to-face, with his children present.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “My office, nine.”
Then his voice softened.
“He asked me to repeat his last instruction. Trust him.”
The cold of the funeral still clung to my skin when I sat in the lawyer’s office the next morning.
Marlene and her brothers were already there, arranged like a jury. She crossed her legs and tilted her head at me.
“How generous of you to come,” Marlene said. “When do you plan to leave our father’s house?”
I folded my hands to keep them from trembling.
A small wooden box sat on the desk. No will was visible.
The lawyer placed his glasses on his nose and looked from one of us to the other.
“Russell asked that I follow his instructions in order.”
Marlene gave a soft laugh.
“The serving girl gets a souvenir.”
The lawyer pushed the box toward me.
“He wanted you to receive this first.”
Inside were no keys, no money, no jewelry, only a folded letter and an old photograph.
Marlene snorted.
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