“Keep this, Marta, so you will always remember this house.”
The telephone rang. I allowed it to ring three times before answering.
“Hello?”
“Is this Marta?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Nathaniel. I represented Mr. Whitaker. Before I continue, please sit down.”
I lowered myself into a chair and stared at the photograph.
“Mr. Whitaker changed his will four months before his death. He left you the entire estate—the mansion, the surrounding land, and a trust for your grandson’s education.”
“That cannot be correct. Julian said the estate belonged to him.”
“Julian was disinherited. His father documented years of neglect and financial pressure. The signed documents are in my office.”
My hand tightened around the edge of the table. As Nathaniel continued explaining, I picked up the frame and ran my thumb along its wooden backing. One corner felt loose. After the call, I turned it over and lifted the cardboard. A folded letter slipped onto the table. My name was written across it in Mr. Whitaker’s shaky handwriting.
